


Plant Yourself Like a Tree (But Not in the Middle of the Living Room)

by CGKrows



Series: Give those Brooklyn Boys Some Love [1]
Category: Captain America - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Age Difference, Alien Invasion, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Anger Management, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Artist Steve Rogers, Assistant Darcy Lewis, Awkward Conversations, Awkward Flirting, Awkward Romance, Awkwardness, BAMF Pepper Potts, Bad Decisions, Bad Jokes, Because New York can't ever catch a break, Because monster aliens, Blood and Gore, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Canon-Typical Violence, Clint Barton Is a Good Bro, Comfort Food, Domestic Avengers, Extremely poor timing, Extremis Pepper Potts, First Time, Graphic Description of Corpses, Gun Violence, Guns, Hostage Situations, Human Disaster Clint Barton, Impulse Control, Jewish Bucky Barnes, Knives, Male-Female Friendship, Mental Health Issues, Mexican-American character(s), Miscommunication, Multi, Natasha Romanov Is a Good Bro, Negotiations, News Media, Peter shows up much later in the story, Pining, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Tony Stark, Ride or Die philosophies, Sexual Inexperience, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Steve Rogers and the 21st Century, The Avengers Tower is a Frat House, Tony Stark Has Issues, because holy shit age differences are problematic, because some women don't think pepper spray is enough, in his weird way, or at least they try to be
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-03
Updated: 2018-04-20
Packaged: 2019-02-26 09:27:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 23,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13232853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CGKrows/pseuds/CGKrows
Summary: Charlotte’s still covered in concrete dust and her best friend’s blood, feeling more than a little bruised. She’s missing her shoes, because both of them were covered in enough gore to be unsalvageable. Somewhere, there’s a rifle she’d stolen out the back of a smashed police car with maybe three bullets left in the clip. Her foot’s killing her, because it’s a stupid old injury from high school and it still gives her problems. She has no idea if Niko, the best friend, even made it to the hospital in time for emergency surgery.Instead, she’s in Avengers Tower, standing in what equates to a living room, staring at two very tall superheroes. One of them has his black, bullet-resistant jacket hanging half-off his body, revealing a quote from a 1975 Sean Connery film crawling up his arm becauseof course she quoted Sean Connery in the middle of a life-death situation like the mess she is.The other has done much the same thing, the top part of his gear gone, the sleeve of his undershirt rolled up. It simply saysFuck the foot!Which, out of context, is a horribly stupid thing to have on one’s arm.





	1. From the Chaos she Came

**Author's Note:**

> Because Soulmate AUs are interesting, and maybe I want to write Steve and Bucky being awkward. I like writing chaotic situations? I like writing people working out their issues? I got nothing.
> 
> I do not have a beta, so if there are errors... I'm sooooo sorry.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Man-eating aliens invade New York, and everything happens all at once. Which, much to her horror, includes finding her soulmates. All she wants to do is sleep for an entire year and expel nearly three hours worth of terror from her system in tears.

Charlotte was sitting in a family-owned restaurant that served both brunch and dinner from six o’clock in the morning til’ midnight.

Normally, she’d be sitting at home, surrounded by scattered sheets of graph paper with an AutoDesk program on the screen of her computer. Or, on a very slow day, just hole herself up somewhere in the house and aimlessly work through all the college assignments she’d been putting off until the last minute. Home was a small condo she shared with her elderly parents. Home was Sacramento, California, the capital of the Golden State. But it was summer break between semesters, and there was no homework to be done. With that fact in mind, Charlotte decided she was going to spend a week in New York seeing all the sights and maybe buy a piece of touristy New York-Avengers merchandise. Community college was stressful, and she deserved a vacation after four semesters of straight A's. Her GPA was solid. So, money could be set aside for gas, food, souvenirs, and cheap motels. She could drive cross-country for two straight days, and her best friend Niko could be dragged along for the ride. And Niko? The man didn’t have anything better to do with himself between semesters beyond working part-time at a Starbucks and consume one too many beers. He had a social drinking problem, and his friends that didn't have the name Charlotte weren’t exactly the best crowd of people. Extremely poor impulse control, those guys.

So Charlotte was sitting in a family-owned restaurant with Niko sitting across from her at a booth by the street-facing window. Niko had chosen the place to eat at random after aimlessly wandering around Midtown with her for an hour. The pair had just enjoyed a touristy visit to the Museum of Modern Art that morning, and she still couldn’t mentally process the art series done by Giorgia Lupi and Stefanie Posavec. It was only their second day in the Big Apple. Charlotte had ordered waffles and sausages, along with a refillable cup of decaf. Plenty of creamer and one sugar packet was added. Niko, being the skinny abyss-pit he was, ordered one of the combos that involved four different dishes and a very tall glass of orange juice. And, to finish the entire order off, a fresh slice of apple pie. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Not that they’d know the difference between what was normal for New York and what wasn’t, as they were as low middle-class West Coast as they came.

Which included but was not limited to being distrustful of the two police cars parked outside the restaurant, where there were four officers harassing a gaggle of black kids armed with bikes and junk food.

“That’s just not fuckin’ kosher,” Niko spoke angrily around a bite of scrambled eggs. His shoulders were tensed, the furious furrow at his brow and the tilt of his mouth saying more than words could. If one dared to look closely, they would notice that his top right canine was lightly chipped. It was somewhat eye-catching, in a way that people notice alley cats missing chunks of their ears.

“Says the Mexican Jew who’s eating a combo that would probably shame his rabbi,” Charlotte remarked, though she didn’t look at him when she said it. She stared straight at the scene, hoping the police would notice they had an audience. Her murky green eyes unfortunately failed in their quest.

“Fuck off, Charlie,” Niko responded easily. “I really want to go out there and break that up, but I really don’t want to get shot.”

“Maybe New York cops aren’t as trigger-happy as they are in California?”

“The fact you posed that as a skeptical question already proves me right.”

“...Okay, so I’m not a big fan of gambling when it comes to dudes armed with guns. Can you blame me? All I got in my bag for protection is a multi-tool and a keychain pepper spray.”

“Two of them are overweight. Podríamos luchar contra ellos.”

“Yeah, but the _getting shot_ part isn’t exactly endearing me to try something like that. Cogida que,” she rebuked.

Niko huffed, still watching the cops bully the kids. Charlotte stared out past the troubling scene, where cars lurched and charged depending on the traffic lights and shoppers across the street were hustling in various directions. The landscape was so very different from what she was used to. Their summer trip was definitely an experience. This was the second time in their lives that they managed to leave California for a vacation. And New York was just... strange. Barely any trees except in Central Park, clusters of skyscrapers reaching for the big blue expanse over their heads. Back home, there were trees everywhere. There were only maybe two buildings in downtown Sacramento that could possibly be identified as a skyscraper. Yet in this bustling city, somewhere in the confusing mess of streets, the Avengers Tower was shimmering in the sunlight. Seeing the infamous Tower was actually on their tourist list, not that Charlotte was exactly looking forward to it. Superhero fans and tourists alike swamped the area, from what she heard. Anyone and everyone wanted to spot the slightest glimpse of an Avenger. Niko was excited, in his own way. He wanted to see if he could manage a sighting of the Falcon, or Thor at the very least. She just wanted to go on a New York boat tour.

_boom._

Charlotte blinked, eyes cast about in confusion before meeting Niko’s equally perplexed gaze. His eyes were the kind of brown color that seemed black in sunlight, made all the more pronounced with his dusky skin and mop of black hair. He was quite handsome, in that rugged sort of fashion. She would have long-since dated him, except he didn't have her Words. Both of them were people who believed in saving themselves for their soulmate. Or, in her case, _soulmates_. Her friend looked ready to say something, but thought better of it. A few of the patrons tensed, looking mildly on edge. Something about that was setting off warning bells in Charlotte's head. She looked out the window, and the cops were still bothering the kids. Though, this time, the kids were finally being smart and inching towards the restaurant door. Probably hoping to fake hunger and escape the harassment. Nothing seemed to have changed. What had been that noise? Did she imagine it? What about it got the customers in the back all bothered—

_Ba-boom._

Niko dropped his utensils, glanced out the window, and grabbed at the backpack sitting beside him in the booth. Community college was a great place to meet all sorts of people in the area, as it was much more affordable and convenient for people with lower incomes than a four-year university. It was there she met Niko Alvarez. Niko was a guy who lived in a less-than-ideal neighborhood with a minutely chipped tooth and more than enough street-smarts to get through a hard life. _If he was packing up to split, you better be packing too._ Charlotte already scrambled to pull the strap of her messenger bag across her body, then fumbled for her cellphone. She didn't live in his neighborhood, but she'd had her fair share of questionable encounters. They were hearing something _not good_. It was still far away, too vague to determine if it was an explosion or crashing, but it was coming closer by the second. The cops seemed oblivious still, somehow. The kids, however, were as taut as bowstrings with white-knuckle grips on their bikes. Charlotte swore she could hear her mother, saying _el que duda está perdido!_ with fire on her tongue _._

_BAH-BOOOM._

It sounded like straight-up destruction, just a few blocks from them. It rang in her ears like a high school fire alarm. Charlotte felt like she was having an out-of-body experience. _When had her life started developing into a B-rated action film?_   But then the abrupt spike of shock finally crashed out of her system. Charlotte could hear faint screams of terror, numerous and growing, alongside cars crashing into each other. Very close. Too close. She ducked under the table on reflex. Niko followed shortly after, due to the fact he was much taller than her in terms of height and had to crunch himself down some to successfully fit. His backpack made him bulkier. Customers were quickly becoming hysterical. Two women were screaming, and very young children were bawling. The gaggle of black kids had come sprinting in before ducking in beside the pair of Californians, clearly having better split-second instincts than their abusers.

There was an uproar, inhuman in quality and too-piercing in pitch. Charlotte, in an attempt to comprehend what she was hearing, struggled to parse it out. In her opinion, it sounded as though someone took a recording of a roaring bear and a yowling jaguar, mashed them together, auto-tuned that, and then multiplied it by a hundred. To say it scared her was an understatement.

 _It terrified the living hell out of her_.

People were screaming all around Charlotte, inside and outside. Everything was happening at once. Niko had a hand gripped so tightly on her left bicep, it felt quite bruised. It would probably look like a black-blue armlet come tomorrow. The kids huddled in tighter, grabbing each other’s clothes and theirs. She didn't hesitate to wrap her arms around as many of them as she could manage. Unlike those in the restaurant, they were dead silent.

Crashing, smashing, roaring, rending, tearing, screaming, crying. There was so much going on in terms of auditory information, Charlotte didn’t know what the hell was happening. For awhile, all she knew was terror.

And then a very big something crashed against the front of the restaurant, shattering the glass windows. Shards of glass hit the booth seats or tumbled down to pile on their clothes. The customers were shrieking. In a sudden desperate need to know what was going on, Charlotte popped her head out from under the booth. Niko and the kids tried to yank her back down, but she pulled herself up with her elbows braced on a booth seat.

One of the police cars was smashed against the building. It was on its side, the machinery underneath exposed. The air smelt like diesel, tar, and freshly dead... _things_. It blocked the shattered windows, offering the slightest sliver of outside light at the very top. The front door was intact. Most of the patrons had stopped screeching, and had managed to huddle behind the server counter or under the back tables in the upheaval. Too-young children were still crying, and so were a number of older people. The monstrous racket outside did not cease. If anything, it seemed to be getting louder.

“Dude, one of the police cars from out front is blocking the windows,” Charlotte said aloud.

“Like there’s any fucking window left,” Niko shot back, poking his head out on the other side of the table. “Qué diablos está pasando?” he said in a quieter tone.

Charlotte didn't have an answer.

“New York’s under attack!” Someone in the back wailed.

“The Avengers’ll stop them, whoever or whatever they are!” said another.

“Like they’re gonna’ save us!” yet another person said, retorting the previous speaker. “I’m gonna’ die inna' damn diner!”

Niko glanced over his shoulder for a moment, before looking to Charlotte across their table shelter. She knew that expression. It was the shit-just-hit-the-fan face. Never a good sign.

“We can’t sit here.”

Understatement of the century. “No shit, Niko. But this is just like the thing with the cops outside. What can we do? Yet again, I’ll remind you what I got: A multi-tool and a keychain pepper spray.” She emphasized this by holding up a hand and counting them off. They were shaking.

Her friend appeared as though he wanted to punch something. Charlotte couldn’t blame him. She glanced around, then down at the kids. All of them were looking up at her, big baby eyes filled with terror. _Same, chicos._ She turned her gaze back to the cop car, and the metal window frame.

“Niko, get out from under this table and put your feet on the window frame. There’s a thin gap big enough up there to see what’s going on outside,” she spoke urgently.

Charlotte watched him eye the frame, and then the car. Without a word, he gingerly freed himself from the table. He kicked shards of glass still sticking up from the metal frame out, making it safe to stand upon, before hopping up. He braced his arms on the car, straining his neck up to see over the totaled vehicle. The customers watched in fearful silence.

“Meirda,” he breathed. His skin was rapidly turning grey, an indicator Charlotte was very familiar with. That was usually what her friend looked like before he vomited up his meal. Normally she witnessed that after one too many drinks. This is a completely different scenario.

“What?”

“I… I think I know what happened to those cops, Charlie. They’re kinda’... strewn all over the street.”

Charlotte blinked up at him blankly. _Strewn all over the street_. “... Mierda.”

“Yeah,” he agreed distantly, eyes never looking away from the chaos outside.

“What else?” She said after a tense moment of silence.

“New York’s definitely being invaded or overrun by shit that the Avengers should totally be dealing with. I… I’m seeing big aliens. Or monsters, I guess. On six legs, with vaguely triceratop' heads and armored bodies. Huge fuckin' teeth.”

She didn’t like the sound of that. She totally, undeniably, _did not like hearing about aliens with multiple limbs and armored forms_.

“Niko, you’ve gone hunting,” she said with more than a little panic leaking into her voice, “There’s got to be something soft about them. Or maybe they have a shit sniffer. We could all sneak out the back of the building or something. Charge them? Make for safety?”

“Uh, well… Their eyes are as big as tennis balls. And they all have eight of them. They, uh, don’t look armored on their bellies. Alien dragons?”

Charlotte felt it was a completely horrible time to parallel aliens that were attacking New York to how dragons in fantasy fiction novels have soft stomachs. She glanced around wildly, desperately trying to think up a way to survive that didn’t involve sitting inside the restaurant and waiting for death. _We can't sit here._

She and Niko were athletic, lean and not too bad at running. But she was exactly five feet and one inch, weighing barely a hundred-fifteen pounds sopping wet. Niko was a stick of a man at five feet and eleven inches, and a reasonable weight for his size. But against aliens bigger than them with probably stronger senses and denser muscle? And what about everyone else? Children couldn't outrun monsters that large. Charlotte doubted she could either.

Breaking off table legs and using them as clubs was out. She could throw a knife, because it’s a cool trick to show off around a bunch of immature guys, but she was no Hawkeye. And, a multi-tool was not a knife. It had knives included, but was not a singular, toss-able weapon. Niko could probably use cleaning supplies and matches to make scary fire bombs, because he was getting an A in CHEM 400. But who could say that the fire didn’t bother the aliens? It was an extremely big unknown. A missing variable. And if it failed, the aliens would then angrily devour them all. Rip them to shreds like the cops. Bada-bing, bada-dead...

Wait.

“Cops,” she muttered, eyes widening. “Cops,” she said louder, looking up at Niko. “What do cops have in the trunk of their cruisers?”

“Depends on the state," her friend responded. He knew a lot of random information when it came to law enforcement. She's a good enough friend not to ask why. "Inside the car, between the two front seats, there’s a standard police-issue rifle and a shotgun. Usually, anyway. Both officers are armed with pistols. What’s in the trunk varies, somewhere between extra ammo for the rifle and shotgun, an extra weapon—” He cut himself off, turning his head sharply.

“Charlie, no.”

“What else are we supposed to do? Let those things eat every person on West 44th Street and then open the door to let them in?”

“The trunk of this car’s probably locked! You’ve only shot an old hunting rifle. Like, twice.”

Charlotte wasn’t going to argue with him. It was a life-death situation, the cops were roadkill outside, customers were huddled in the back, and there were six black kids hiding under the table. This was their best chance, because every other option was a one-way ticket to the afterlife. 

“Are you with me or not?”

They stared each other down, eyes locked for what seemed like an eternity. Niko was clearly terrified out of his mind. Charlotte was too. She was a good shot with a gun, at least the two times she did actually fire the weapon. But good _God_ , it wasn’t like she was hunting aliens over winter break with Niko and their very weird redneck friend. Those were deer and one very confused mallard duck. She was never going to find her two soulmates, who she was hoping were responsible people and gifted with an affinity for numbers. A pair of friendly, good-natured accountants. There was no way she'd ever be able to properly do her own taxes without screwing it all up; she was dyslexic. But that fantasy was quickly running off into the sunset. Niko was never going to find the idiot who'd utter  **Did somebody say memes?** to his face. Charlotte wanted to be there to see it happen. But they were probably going to die trying to shoot the damn aliens outside the eatery.

At least they were going to try and fail, instead of waiting for those things to find them.

Niko threw up his arms. “Die now with your stupid ass or die later. Fuck everything, we have nothing else.”

And then they were herding their gaggle of kids to the back of the restaurant, and the terrified patrons started hysterically protesting. One of them had their phone out and live-streaming. Charlotte wondered how long they’d been doing it. Were Niko and her trending on Youtube? She hands off her messenger bag to one of the kids to keep it safe. Niko does much the same. Her cellphone, multi-tool, and wallet are stuffed into jacket and pant pockets. At least if she dies, someone should be able to identify her entrails. 

“You can’t go out there! You’re gonna’ just bring them right to us!”

“Just how old _are_ you two?”

“What if the police car has no guns?”

“ _I can’t watch!_ ”

“Can anybody here actually shoot a gun?” Charlotte spoke over the protests.

They went silent. No one answered.

* * *

Creeping outside, the restaurant door propped open with a chair, was terrifying. It may not sound terrifying, but the door was wood and glass. Enough glass, in fact, that if the aliens had good eyesight, anybody on the other side would be chicken-flavored lunch. Thankfully the car obscured the view of said door, and the trunk was luckily right by it. It was smashed open, the claw-shaped dent more than a little daunting. The screaming and roaring was ever louder in their years, and it was almost insane to see so many people still managing to run around. A very cruel thing to think, but the aliens were _huge_.

Charlotte tried to not look at the gore collecting in the street. Or breathe too deeply. If she did, her lunch would be on the pavement and she'd lose all her nerve.

"Two rifles and a box full of federal ammunition," Niko said, pulling his arm free. The heavy plastic container sat at their feet, and a rifle was in her hands. Niko just freed the other.

Admittedly, Charlotte knew jack-shit about guns. Yes, she fired an old hunting rifle twice when she went hunting with Niko and Colby Johnson during Christmas one year. No scopes and modern crap, just a metal notch and the hope that she had the weapon properly braced against her body. She firmly believed guns should, on a civilian level, only be for hunting. No assault rifles, no militias and craziness. But the rifle she had in her grasp was undeniably something meant to kill. _**AR-15**_ glared up at her from the side of it, along with the manufacturer and barcode number. It was not as heavy as she expected it to be, but it was still heavy for someone her size. A sight was attached, and so was an adjustable black body strap. The clip curved out from the gun like some kind of demented plastic horn.

"I regret everything," she said, after Niko stopped counting how many clips were inside the ammunition box. There were twenty-four. Why did she think this was a good idea? She was a goddamn Design Engineering major with a would-be minor in Art Studio. _I am not an American soldier trained to defend her position or snipe terrorists._ Again, Charlotte had only shot a gun twice in her life. A head shot to a mule deer, and a heart shot to a directionally-challenged mallard duck.

"It's this or that." Niko points to the stringed-out mess in the street, hand shaking slightly. Bits of a police uniform are soaked in blood and a sidearm sitting in a ripped holster is dotted with clumps of skin. 

She takes a few breaths, because suddenly the smell in the air—seeing the gore—the aliens chasing people a yard or five away—is a little too much. Niko seems to be doing the same, but also slipping the gun's body strap over his body. Charlotte eventually does the same. _Ride or die. Are you going to take it lying down? Do you want to die? No. Ride or die_. 

"That cop car is good cover," her friend states, pointing to the remaining police vehicle a few paces away. It looks plenty crunched like its fellow against the restaurant, but intact enough to be something to hide behind. And, if their clip supply runs out, another possible resource.

Another breath.

"On three," Charlotte decides, huffing it out, looking Niko straight in the eyes. He nods shakily with a white-knuckle grip on his rifle.

"One..."

A woman screams as one of the behemoths seize her in its gaping jaws. It crunches down, quick and hard, blood oozing down its teeth to drip onto the pavement.

"Two..."

A couple hold each other's hands tightly as they desperately sprint past a stranger. Their soulmarks are plainly displayed on their straining arms, unreadable due to dried blood and grime. The stranger is not fast enough, and his right arm is summarily ripped from his body in a mess of blood and ligaments with a hint of bone. The woman has permanent tear tracks on her cheeks from her makeup.

" _ **THREE!**_ " 

The pair dash madly for the wrecked automobile. Charlotte is in the lead with Niko behind her, carrying the ammo box. They must have smelled, heard, or seen them, because two aliens turn and bare their gore-stained teeth. With a fresh wave of adrenaline pumping through her body, Charlotte props her rifle lightly on the hood of the car. She looks through the sight.

It takes two seconds for her to align the sight lines with an inhuman, acid yellow eyeball. It takes less to fire.

_Crack!_

The gunshot is loud, and it rings sharply in her ears. The monster's blood, gushing down its twisted face, is an extremely deep green. It reminds Charlotte of pine trees at sunset. Or, fresh bird shit. Its body drops like dead weight, and she swears the ground shakes ever-so-slightly when it hits the asphalt. Looking at the thing, she has to agree with Niko's visual assessment. The flared cranial spines look like a triceratops' crest, but less like a fan and more like a horn array. The head is long, and the jaw that's tilted open is lined with teeth. Their arrangement resembles a canine's dental formula, strangely enough. _Thanks, physical anthropology class_. The creepy part is the second set of teeth just inside the first, the same as a shark. The front forelegs, of which there are four, are bulky with muscle and have paw-claw hands with opposable thumbs. Said claws are as long as kitchen knives. Its scales are stone grey with bulbous greenish growths appearing in vital areas. The backbone, the sides, front of the legs, the head. Its tail is a whip. The stomach looks quite vulnerable and slightly... _slick_ , as if an entire colony of worms merged together to form its underbelly.

Clearly, the only good places to shoot are the eyes or the underside. Either way, it was a ridiculously good first shot. Colby would be proud.

_Crack-crack!_

The second alien went down moments after Charlotte's kill collapsed, the bottom row of eyes gushing green.

"Not to sound like a nag, but be careful with the bullets."

Niko shrugged. "Zombieland, Charlie. Double-tap policy."

Charlotte didn't get a chance to say anything back. Five aliens were homing in on their cop car hiding spot, and the panicked pedestrians were now bolting toward their side of the street. Or just pushing to run faster. She couldn't exactly blame them. Gunfire  _and_ aliens?

Either way, it all started to become something of a blur. Swivel, line up, shoot. Repeat. Bloodied and injured New Yorkers began pointedly sprinting across West 44th Street to be on sidewalk behind the pair, and the behemoths were not taking kindly to their midday meals making a valiant break for it. By sheer accident, the two Californians had created something of a narrow security net. At one point, Charlotte swore she heard a squeaky little voice yell _get_ _inside! quick!_ and the customers hiding inside the restaurant yelling encouraging words. _Look at them go! You can do it! You don't have to be super to be a hero!_ But Charlotte couldn't confirm if she was hearing things or not, because it was near-impossible to hear anything over the sound of the assault rifle in her grip and the ferocious roar of the alien getting a little too close to her face. Its breath smelt like rot. Five minutes later, both of them nearly had their heads bitten off twice.

Niko popped the ammo box open, and they took strategic turns twitching out clips. She gets a chance glance at the size of the bullets she is firing, and could only really say they remind her of lipstick tubes. The damn monsters kept coming, though the flow of their approach was inconsistent. Maybe a half-hour into their defense, there were enough dead alien carcasses in the street that she and Niko took to dashing about and popping up like ADHD weasels with a death wish. Scurry, crouch, line up, shoot. Repeat. They moved the ammo box to the middle of their corpse obstacle course. More than a few times an alien would almost successfully charge them, smashing the concrete and asphalt. Charlotte brushed with death for a sixth time when one of them leaped off a nearby building and tried to pound her into the ground. Niko was rapidly puzzling out creative ways to angle and shoot his AR-15 while moving to make up for that. Charlotte's American River College hoodie was a tone lighter from concrete dust and speckled with green from alien blood. Her right foot was starting to throb, because it was never very good at holding her weight for long periods of time ever since she broke it in high school. There were reasons she chose a major that didn't require a lot of exercise.

Something flew rocket-fast over their heads when they are halfway through the twenty-four clips in the ammo box.

"What the fuck was that?!" Charlotte yells over the riotous din of the invasion. 

"It looked like it was red an' gold! I think that might have been Iron Man!"

"What?! Seriously?! Please tell me that means an Avenger or three is gonna' help us out! Save us?! Rescue us all?! Mail the both of us back to California in animal crates?! Sweet fuckin' God, please!"

If she didn't need therapy after this nightmare, Charlotte is going to call total bullshit and self-rehabilitate alone in Yosemite. About another ten minutes following their brief chat, the red-gold streak in the sky flew past yet again.

"Si él nos pasa una vez más y la ayuda aún no ha llegado, voy a dispararle a su _estúpido culo de metal!_ " Niko yelled furiously.

"I'll do the shooting for you!" Charlotte yelled back in harried agreement.

But the help didn't arrive, and Iron Man didn't pass overhead a third time. They are down to four clips, not counting the ones already loaded. Niko gets nicked in the face with a flying chunk of asphalt, his right cheek oozing itself into a patchy red mess. Charlotte's college hoodie is torn all over the place. Her jeans are torn at the knees, and said skin of the knees were raw from skid burn. Scurry, crouch, line up, shoot. Swivel, line up, shoot. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.

Until the street was abruptly empty. The pair of Californians could still hear screaming and roaring monsters and pandemonium, but West 44th Street was clear on both ends. They stood dumbly, surrounded by dead aliens, scattered human gore, and torn-up street. Their rifles hung off their bodies at awkward angles. It was eerie, and Charlotte was unsettled. Their breaths came heavy still, from exertion and excess adrenaline.

The restaurant door creaked tentatively open, and the pair turned. One of the kids came into view. They could see the rest of the survivors all crammed inside behind his little person.

"Are they all gone?"

Niko and Charlotte shared a wary look, before shaking their heads. "I don't think this is stopping until the Avengers do something major, or something," Niko said.

Charlotte was more succinct. "It's not safe out here, honey. Stay inside."

The kid slowly nodded, moving to close the door, but froze. His eyes were as wide as dinner plates. A hushed rumble was all the warning they got.

Then Niko hit the ground, screaming his lungs out. Charlotte dropped like a rock. A giant maw snapped at air, and she scrambled to her feet. Terror overrode everything. She could hear it giving chase, growls ripping out of its throat. She grappled her way up atop an alien body and then jumped. She turned in midair with her rifle up.

The two aliens were nearly the size of elephants. They were more heavily armored, akin to armadillos but with bizarre triceratops horns. The beast had its teeth on display, all four sets of them, head moving to snap Charlotte out of the air. Niko's left leg was caught in the second alien's mouth, dragging him across the destroyed asphalt. He was still screaming. His free leg flailed wildly before managing to kick it squarely in its seventh eye.

_Crack-crack-crack!_

Three bullets went through one eye, exploding with green blood. Charlotte hit the ground hard on the other side of the alien corpse as the beast collapsed. The remaining one screeched like a banshee. Eight eyes appeared overhead, four claws reaching out to rend. Revenge, maybe. Its mouth was stained with fresh blood.

She unloaded nearly all her clip into its belly. It fell at her feet with a wet slop, the bottom left canine touching her shoe. Green pooled out every which way. Charlotte didn't stay to watch and shakily got to her feet.

"NIKO!"

His leg was... she didn't even know how to describe it. There was a ton of blood. The teeth of the hulking alien had chewed into his thigh and ankle. His pants were so wet with his blood they were nearly black. Charlotte's hoodie was off and wrapped tightly around his thigh in moments, even as her hands shook viciously. She'd used her multi-tool's saw knife to cut the hoodie up. Both his ankle and thigh got her shitty treatment. The red got everywhere. Her hands, her pants, her blue graphic shirt. God, she was not qualified to do this. Charlotte swore she could taste the bile waiting in the back of her throat.

"My leg," he croaked out through the pain. "My fuckin' leg."

"Get your belt off and you might fucking see it saved after this goddamn nightmare!"

His arms sluggishly pulled and unbuckled, and Charlotte roughly yanked it off. _Just like in the movies... You can do this... ho-ly shit..._

Niko screamed again when she tightened the belt to the point of constriction. "FUCK! I hope I live to punch your st-stupid fuckin' ass in the f-fuckin' face, you b-bitch!"

Charlotte didn't give a response, her eyes wild as she looked around. She caught a glimpse of movement. Something was coming swiftly down the street at her right. Something was coming!

"Shit. _Shit_ , I gotta'—Shit, shit, _shit!_ Niko, sit up as much as you can!"

He managed to partially pull himself up. Charlotte rushed behind him, leaning over. She took a breath, reach under his pits, and pulled.

"Fuck!" Niko cried, though not as loud as he had when the belt was put on. Charlotte dragged him by inches, sloppy and rough. His wounded leg left a bloody trail in its wake.

* * *

 She just managed to lean Niko against the side-sitting cop car outside the restaurant when he urgently cried out.

"Charlie, look! Help! _Help!_ "

She looked, and found her murky green eyes meeting gunmetal grey three feet away. Apparently, what she'd spotted in the corner of her eye was not an alien. _Thank God._ It was striking to see such pale eyes framed by dark hair and clothes. The man was tall, though an inch shorter than Niko's skinny height. His left arm was metal, shining interlocking plates, and a red star was lightly stained green at his shoulder. His weapon was huge, nozzle nearly touching the ground. It had to be some kind of half-artillery-shooter-thing, or something equally intimidating. The man was dressed completely in black, armed to the gills, with a mask that hid the lower half of his face. Brunette hair stopped at the base of his protected neck. Charlotte knew, from photographs and gossip articles online, that hidden under all that gear was a painfully attractive fellow who was actually a part of her _grandfather's_ generation and not hers.

The Winter Soldier. It had to be, with that metal arm. He'd recently joined the Avengers, if Charlotte remembered the news correctly. He appeared as though he went for a swim in the aliens' blood at some point, though there wasn't that much of it in his hair. Not that she and Niko weren't a bizarre sight. Two college kids, a tiny sprite and a stick man, both twenty-four and filthy, one of them with his leg nearly bit off. Charlotte's grip on her rifle was as jittery from adrenaline overload. Niko's weapon laid in his lap.

"Thank God you're here," Niko declared, almost dazed with relief. His hand clutched the star of David under his shirt. "Gracias al Señor, en toda su bondad. Gracias al Señor."

Charlotte bopped him in the head. It wasn't good that he started openly thanking God; Niko was very guarded about the fact he was Jewish for various personal reasons. He'd lost a lot of blood, and clearly getting loopy. _Not good._ "Don't check out on me, Niko."

He blinked, struggling to regain his coherency. "Right, yeah. Okay."

He tilted his head to look up at the Winter Soldier, still slightly dazed. "Charlie and I stole these rifles from this cop car's trunk," his knuckles rapped against the car at his back. "We kinda' didn't want to die by way of being eaten alive in a New York restaurant."

The Soldier's gaze flickered between the two, then eyed the numerous aliens laying in the street. Charlotte was somewhere between intimidated into silence and unsure how to behave around a real-deal superhero. What the hell does one say to someone who had to be nearly a century old? She felt that if she tried to explain what happened, all that would come out of her mouth would be tired, nonsensical babble. The heavily-armed man stared blankly at the red puddles and entrails mixed with foreign gore, and blinked at the sight of the innocent ammo box in the middle of the slaughter. He turned back to them, eyebrows almost to his hairline.

"You two did this? By yourselves?"

His tone of voice was full of quiet disbelief, and Charlotte wasn't really sure what to do with herself. Aliens, dead people, gore, guns. Now, the world's most deadly assassin and a World War II hero. When could she just sit down and sleep?

"Uh, yeah?" Niko said awkwardly. Clearly he was waiting for Charlotte to say something to the superhero, but that was not going to happen anytime soon. "I mean, I've shot a hunting rifle plenty of times. Charlie's shot some too. She's a great shot."

"Niko, not a good time to brag about my shooting skills," she intoned, "I nearly died seven times in the last two hours."

He shrugged. "Anyway, can you evacuate us? The restaurant here has all the survivors we could save. There's kids an' shit in there, and I really don't want our effort to go to waste."

Lord, Niko could be ridiculously blunt at the worst of times. Charlotte wanted to cry, now that she wasn't fighting for her life. She doesn't want to think about what would have happened if they hadn't stole the AR-15 rifles out of the cruiser's trunk. Especially what would have happened to the kids.

Thankfully, the Winter Soldier didn't look offended. "First responders are camped up 6th Avenue by the Park. We've got most of the aliens contained. Stark said something about West 44th Street and guerrilla warfare, and I came to investigate."

Charlotte made a face that expressed just how appreciative she was about being ignored by Iron Man. Niko was angrier. "He flew past us _twice_ when we were neck-deep in monsters! There are maybe a hundred or so people in there! And kids! My leg's nearly gnawed off! We aren't just _something!_ "

Niko kept going. Slowly but surely, he became so worked up that he ran out of good English insults for Tony Stark and switched to Spanish. Charlotte inched away, heading towards the restaurant door and opening it.

"YOU'RE ALIVE!" A crowd of kids screamed with glee, latching onto Charlotte. She nearly tipped over. _Maybe I'm more exhausted than I thought?_

"Yeah, I'm alive. My buddy's alive too, though his leg needs immediate care. Who has our stuff?"

Two of them dashed off and returned with a backpack and messenger bag respectively. The survivors inside chittered in excitement and relief.

"Thanks, guys," she said, offering what she hoped was a smile. Charlotte looked to the crowded restaurant, packed with bodies. People were standing, sitting, laying down. Kids were hugging their mothers. Niko had to be right; there must be over a hundred people crammed inside like sardines. "One of the Avengers came for us. There's a clear path to 6th Avenue. He says there's a big set up with first responders there. We can all get out of here!"

All at once, everyone broke out into cheers. People began crying again, but with utter relief and joy. Charlotte moved aside, and they all came pouring out onto the sidewalk. More than a few retched at the horrifying sight, and mothers quickly turned their children away from the view. The Winter Soldier, despite the extremely intimidating sight he presented, immediately brought calm to the throng. The restaurant emptied out, and a trail of people could be seen walking quickly towards 6th Avenue. They weren't about to wait around for the next wave of aliens.

Charlotte, in contrast, _really_ needed to move Niko. She had no idea how much blood he lost, but he looked a little too pale to be healthy. He was getting loopy. She was extremely concerned about saving her best friend's leg.

"Alright, Niko. Somehow, I'm gonna' haul you to Central Park."

"You could barely drag by ass to this car," he said, surly from pain.

"Callate la boca!"

"Pruébame!" he shot back.

"Voy a pisar tu pierna!"

"How about I haul you to Central Park?"

The pair glanced up, and there was... _Captain America?_ His uniform and iconic shield definitely declared to anyone within a mile radius who he was. Who else would run around dressed like an American flag? The reflective shine off the metallic A on his helmet nearly blinded the young woman.

"Oh fuck," Niko blurted.

"Ditto, buddy," Charlotte chimed in.

And that was when the aliens chose to announce their presence with an earth-shaking roar, charging down the street from 5th Avenue. And then the Winter Soldier was shooting at them with his gigantic gun, Captain- _goddamn_ -America was throwing Niko on his back, and Charlotte was shooting off her AR-15. It was yet another instance when the adrenaline was through the roof, terror controlled her completely, and aliens were trying to eat her. Except, now she was bone-tired.

A tired Charlotte made less sense than a Dadaist poetry bash.

"I wish I had a sword or something; I have arms, I'm not an invalid!" Niko spat.

"This is _not_ the time to talk about swords, kid! Steve, get out of here!" The Soldier demanded.

"Not without you, Buck!"

Out of nowhere, a movie quote bubbled up from the back of Charlotte's mind. It was completely ridiculous, out of context. But Niko bringing up swords in the midst of a battle involving artillery and an assault rifle made her think of it unexpectedly. She was tired, strung-out, and not exactly thinking as clearly as she could have been.

She shared it, not caring whether the Winter Soldier heard her. "Men prefer to fight with swords, so they can see each other's eyes! Sometimes, this is not possible! Then, they fight with rifles!"

The artillery fire cut off sharply, and his head whipped around to face her like a pinwheel on a stick. His alluring gunmetal eyes were wide and stunned. Charlotte blinked in confusion at him. What was up? Why did he stop firing? Is he okay? Was the Wind and the Lion quote too corny?

"Bucky!" The Captain bellowed, "We need to go, _now!_ "

The Winter Soldier's brow furrowed so deeply in anger, he had a temporary unibrow. "Dammit, punk!" he cursed, not before grabbing Charlotte by the arm and throwing her forward.

She stumbled into a speedy trot, but wasn't gaining much speed. Charlotte had been on her feet so long, her right foot was trying to give out on her. The adrenaline wasn't helping her, but hindering her. She was exhausted beyond words, weighed down by an AR-15 nearly as long as she was tall. Niko's backpack was on her back, and the messenger bag slung across her body opposite her stolen gun.

She dared to glance behind her.

And what she saw? Scared her into a dead sprint. The Winter Soldier and Captain America had to adjust their speeds quickly. Eyebrows were raised. But the Captain had seen her initial pained trot, and being who he was, worried when he saw the young woman zip ahead.

"Kid," he called, adjusting a clinging Niko on his back, "You’re gonna’ fall over with that foot!"

" _Fuck the foot!_ " she yelled.

The Captain stumbled for the second time since he'd got the serum in 1943, and the Soldier had to steady him.

* * *

Charlotte’s still covered in concrete dust and her best friend’s blood when the haze of confusion, fear, and leftover adrenaline wear off. She's feeling more than a little bruised. Which, between the hand-shaped bruises on her upper arms and the multiple bruises she feels forming all over her back from using an alien corpse as a spring board, is a reasonable thing to feel. She’s missing her shoes, because both of them were probably covered in enough gore—human and alien—to be unsalvageable. Somewhere, there’s a rifle she’d stolen out the back of a smashed police car with maybe three bullets left in the clip. Charlotte's shirt smells like everything she hates. Sweat, Niko's blood, and rot. It's unsalvageable too, the blue color virtually lost in all the filth. Her foot’s killing her, because it’s a stupid old injury from high school and it still gives her problems. Charlotte doubts she'll be able to walk on it for half the week, it aches that badly. She has no idea if Niko, the best friend, even made it to the hospital in time for emergency surgery. Exhaustion has made itself at home in her bones, to the point her mind's nothing more than a sloppy bowl of alphabet soup. She vaguely remembers sitting on a makeshift bed, someone asking if the blood on her shirt was hers. Beyond that, nothing. Charlotte's sluggishly sliding off a couch to stand, not really registering how or why she was laying out on a couch. Her hand comes up to rub at her left eye. She shakes her head slightly, blinking.

She's standing in what equates, in her addled mind, to a living room. A circle of three couches and four love seats, off-white and plush. One of the couches, the one behind her, has grime rubbed into it. That was probably her doing. The floor is polished stone tile, expensive rugs are everywhere. There's a very extravagant bar, crystal tumblers lining shelves behind the modern-style counter. Sleek black coffee table, and then multiple levels connected to said room by stairs. Though, maybe it's not a living room. The ceiling is very high over Charlotte's head. Lots of glass, interjections of wood accents, natural rock textures. Polished metal and electric blue trim. The architectural design is breathtaking from her perspective, as a Design Engineering major. Though, if she was in charge, she'd reduce the amount of glass involved. There was a fine line between giving the illusion of an open space, and going overboard in one's endeavor to make a postmodern masterpiece. A wide expanse of windows, floor-to-ceiling, offer a fantastic view of Manhattan. It draws her over, hobbling.

It takes barely five seconds for Charlotte to realize exactly where she is. _Avengers Tower!? What—!?_

"You're one hard woman to find."

She startles, stumbling on her bad foot and nearly going ass over tea kettle. A mismatched pair of hands reach out to steady her, and Charlotte blinks like an owl. Looking up, she finds a pair of gunmetal eyes.

"What?" she says smartly.

The Winter Soldier offers something of a smile, a peculiar pinch in his expression Charlotte's not quite sure how to interpret. It looks hesitant and almost as uncertain as she feels. He hasn't changed out of his all-black uniform, and it's still heavily stained in green. "I said, you're one hard woman to find. Though, I guess that's a bit ova' stretch."

He's got an accent he didn't have when they met on West 44th Street, something that reminds her of old black-white films set in New York. She wants to be offended by what he said, but she can't exactly dispute it. Young woman would be a better thing to say—

Charlotte pauses, eyes widening. Her right hand flies up to grip her left arm, the fingers pointedly touching the underside. A somewhat messy cursive scrawl is there, not covered. Did he read them? Was he messing with her? _What was happening?_

She hears footsteps, softened by the many carpets littering the floor. The Soldier glances over his shoulder, and Charlotte sees a very-battered Captain America walk towards them. His expression is just as unsure and creased as his fellow Avenger. He doesn't have his shield, and there's traces of red blood on one shoulder. It's probably Niko's blood, and her anxiety over what happened to him skyrockets.

Charlotte finds herself facing two very tall superheroes. They share a look, and outer layers are unceremoniously unzipped. The Winter Soldier has his black, bullet-resistant jacket hanging half-off his body, revealing a quote from a 1975 Sean Connery film crawling up his arm because  _of course she quoted Sean Connery in the middle of a life-death situation like the mess she is._  The other has done much the same thing, the top part of his gear gone, the sleeve of his undershirt carefully rolled up. It simply says  **Fuck the foot!**  Which, out of context, is a horribly stupid thing to have on one’s arm.

The dawning shock has her bad foot giving up the ghost, sending her tumbling. Both men lunge forward.

"What the fuck," she says, unable to wrap her head around the new information. The two super soldiers are bracketing her in, hands moving about and pulling her back up. "Just... what the fuck."

They don't look exactly pleased by her response, but she can't even force herself to feel bad. Charlotte's too damn stunned to be nice. And embarrassed. _Who the hell says **Fuck the foot** to their soulmate? Or brings up movie quotes in the middle of a fight?_

"I always thought I'd end up with a pair of accountants. Like, one would be a huge mother hen, and the other one would be a hopeless romantic. Hell, one accountant and one artist. One of them could do the taxes and bills, so I wouldn't have to, and the other could talk shop with me," she suddenly found herself babbling.

"An accountant?" The Captain blurts out in utter confusion. He clearly hadn't meant to say anything, but her shocked garble had him speaking up.

"I'm dyslexic. I mean, totally high-functioning, but still dyslexic. I can hyperfocus and complete calculations for Autodesk designs, but spreadsheets and tax forms make my head spin. I assumed I'd probably end up with an accountant or two because I'm honestly a mess at numbers that aren't related to design engineering. Somebody's gotta' pay the bills and manage the money," Charlotte continued to ramble, hysteria building in her voice. "But nope. I got two super soldiers as old as my dead grandfather that kill aliens and terrorists for a living. And, to top it off, they both live on the east coast! _What am I gonna' tell my mother?!_ "

She paused again, groaning, her hands covering her face. "Oh fuck, my mother. Dad's probably up and ditched work to rush home, and she's probably having a stroke from sheer stress. This day just keeps getting better and better..."

Mismatched hands pulled her arms away. "Everything'll be fine, k—doll," The Soldier says, tripping over the last word. He looks very worried. "Your friend's getting patched up at the hospital, and all those people you guys saved are fine. All of them are calling you two heroes."

Niko and her? _Heroes?_

As hot tears fall down her cheeks, heavy sobs heaving out of her lungs, the two men stand there awkwardly at her side. Lost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #### Spanish translations:
> 
> Podríamos luchar contra ellos. - Essentially "We could fight against them."
> 
> Cogida que. - Essentially "Fuck that."
> 
> el que duda está perdido! - He who hesitates is lost!
> 
> Qué diablos está pasando? - Essentially "Just what the fuck is going on?"
> 
> Mierda - Shit
> 
> Si él nos pasa una vez más y la ayuda aún no ha llegado, voy a dispararle a su estúpido culo de metal! - Essentially "If he passes us one more time and help has not yet arrived, I'm going to shoot his stupid metal ass!"
> 
> Gracias al Señor, en toda su bondad. Gracias al Señor - Essentially "Thank the Lord, in all his goodness. Thank the Lord."
> 
> Callate la boca! - Shut your mouth!
> 
> Pruébame! - Essentially "Try me!"
> 
> Voy a pisar tu pierna! - Generally "I will step on your leg!"


	2. Pain and Punches

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She and Niko have become a national news sensation overnight. She's in ridiculous amounts of pain, and her foot has temporarily given up the ghost. She attempts to reorient herself, but it seems super soldiers run on different timetables.
> 
> Tony Stark, really.

Charlotte wakes up in a bed she doesn't remember falling asleep in, wearing clothes that are not hers. She can tell, because the shirt and sweats swamp her entire frame. They make her feel like a five year-old trying on an adult's clothes, and she _loathes_  feeling small. Small implies helplessness, weakness, and being delicate. Charlotte doesn't see herself as any of those descriptions, and thus hates clothes five sizes too big.

Either way, the young woman wisely doesn't attempt to move immediately, because even the slightest shift of her body makes her back flare up with an aching cry of protest. It's pretty obvious that those bruises from yesterday have meshed together as a singular, huge sore. Charlotte dazedly glances about in the haze of echoing pain. She notices her cellphone, wallet, and multi-tool are sitting quietly on the bedside table to her right. The screen of her cellphone is completely shattered, and she's got a sinking feeling in her stomach that says the device is broken beyond hope of use. She's in a bed, in a bedroom. Charlotte guesses that the mattress is a Queen, and the bedroom is just one of the many bedrooms located in the Avengers Tower for use. There's a plain white lamp with a square shade, the walls are a light sandy taupe, the ceiling trim is white, the sliding closet doors are mirrors, and the door is white. Her abraded knees are bandaged, and so are her scraped-up hands. Idly, Charlotte wonders who the hell was in charge of changing her into the extremely oversized clothes she's wearing and cleaning her up.

That is, until the reminder that _she found her soulmates in the middle of an alien invasion_ startles her into sitting up. 

Good God, Charlotte doesn't know what to feel or say. She'd always expected to marry a pair of very normal people. Maybe not normal in terms of personality, because she didn't exactly have a very simple deposition or a generic set of opinions. But, well... a pair she could actually have conversations with. Charlotte is a dyslexic hobby artist that really liked engineering. Of course, her math skills weren't good enough, thus she settled for the next best thing: computer-aided drafting. So she is a dyslexic digital draftswoman with an artists' aesthetic. She was born and raised in Sacramento, California. Her best friend nowadays is a skinny, social drunk named Niko who was a Jew desperately trying to go sober. When she was old enough to understand her soulmarks, she liked them for how candid they were. After freshman year of high school, a week after breaking her foot, she felt like the mystery person who said  **Kid, you’re gonna’ fall over with that foot!** had to be just around the corner. Probably someone who was a natural worrywart, and a little older than her. After all, she broke her right foot, specifically her fifth metatarsal. Charlotte would be having a bad day with her foot, and her soulmate would appear. The other, **You’re one hard woman to find** , sounded like something straight from the pages of a dime-romance novel. Whoever they were, they had to be a charmer. Something of a flirt, but not so bad as to make Charlotte walk away after he said those fated words.

But instead, she ends up with Captain America and the Winter Soldier. All her expectations were blown out of the water.

Charlotte has read her fair share of history books, learned about those two soldiers in textbooks, wrote a few papers about them in college for advanced American History classes. They were cool, in the way reading about Alexander the Great was cool, but they never seemed real. There were Captain America comics, Bucky Bears, corny cartoon shows, reprints of iconic Howling Commando propaganda posters. The young woman herself had once owned an action figure that was made as merchandise for those extremely silly cartoon shows. America was goddamn obsessed with them! And when Mr. Stars and Stripes appeared, saving New York with the brand-new Avengers team? He became larger-than-life. Two years went by with him running around fighting extraordinary enemies and stopping threats, and popular news interviews with him read like a National Geographic history lesson instead of a gossip rag. Add in the collapse of SHIELD, a once-successful but apparently very corrupt espionage organization, and the reappearance of Captain America's best friend and comrade from the War? Charlotte thought it was one big soap opera that managed to happen in real life.

So she isn't sure what to think, because none of this was something she had the time to be concerned over yesterday. Who would, when aliens were trying to eat all human life in New York? Charlotte also doesn't know what it was like in the 1940's, but the social process that went with soulmarks and soulmates was very complex in the modern age.

Once, sometime in humanity's past, soulmates would know the moment they said their Words they were meant to be together. The soulbond would happen instantaneously. But at some point in history, the immediate connection between soulmates just started... _not happening_. It kept getting worse, lowering the number of soulbound couples and raising the number of improperly-matched couples. It also didn't help that same-sex soulmates were discriminated against, and having more than one soulmate was seen as scandalous. So, somewhere along the long road of confusion, human culture adapted to create protocols that would lower the chance of bad matches. The families of each soulmate held negotiations, trials, tests, and examinations. It varied depending on religious and cultural background, but negotiations were universal in all parts of the world. If no immediate family came forward to represent a soulmate in the required negotiations, then a chosen close friend or legal guardian would take their place. If a soulmate did not have anyone suitable amongst friends and had no legal guardian still alive, specialized lawyers would be hired and brought in. And, in America, Canada, and most of Europe, proof of a settled negotiation was a written contract. Otherwise, the soulmates would not be seen as legally soulbound and any attempt at marriage would not be recognized by the government, instant connection or not.

Charlotte also doesn't want to contemplate how her mother would react upon hearing she'd found her soulmates. Not that she is ashamed of the fact she is apparently matched with two superheroes by fate, but she has other reasons. The young woman is twenty-four and not finished with college. Her soulmates are technically each nearly a century old, and physically in their early to mid-thirties. Technical or not, there is a severe age difference. Not to say she isn't legal, because she is over eighteen; there's no worry there. But how is their fated relationship ever going to work? What had destiny been _smoking_ when it decided to pair the three of them up? It was sheer cradle robbery. Her mother would most likely demand some kind of "no-children-until-she's-this-age" stipulation to the contract, and probably a "you-touch-my-daughter-you-are-forced-to-commit-ritual-suicide" tacked on right after the former provision. And exactly seven grandchildren, when the time came that said "no-kids-until-forty" stipulation became invalid.

God, everything was a mess. Charlotte would also probably be required to move in with the two men, as it was tradition in Western societies for female soulmates to live with their male matches immediately. Her mother was very traditional. Goodbye, California. Goodbye, community college. Though, if she somehow actually had higher status than the superheroes, they'd be forced to move in with her instead. America may like their bizarre White traditions, but America likes status even more...

Wait.

Hadn't the Winter Soldier—James Buchanan Barnes, if Charlotte would actually remember to use his name—viciously reacted to her enunciation of his Words? And Captain America, hadn't he tripped or something? Were her matches actually connection-sensitive, and she was not?

It was food for thought, as she sat in bed. Charlotte isn't someone who enjoys reading a lot of gossip and celebrity news, usually finding more entertainment in reading political articles or web-published short stories. As a result, she doesn't have even an inkling of an idea whether or not the two super soldiers are soulmates or not. It wasn't strange for a triad match to have one person serve as a connecting bridge between two people. Some people were even born Blank, which was a gift and a curse. But if they _were_ soulmates, had they known instantaneously the moment they'd spoken to each other? It was important, because it was valuable bargaining information to have when the horribly-inevitable negotiation occurred. If they did and she did not, laws stated her family would have the position of power during the negotiation. Because, in a way, they were at a disadvantage. And disadvantages were not allowed to exist in a negotiation, so those at a disadvantage are allowed to make all claims and contract rules first before serious debate began.

And Charlotte's mother? In another life, she could have been one hell of a cut-throat lawyer.

But the young woman feels she can't exactly pass judgment on the two men just yet. Her anxiety and panic over the future is clouding her opinion of them. They seemed like perfectly good people, experienced superheroes who would risk their life to save an innocent at any cost. Charlotte shouldn't instantly demonize them because she's afraid of the uncertain future. Maybe they would be very fair, if not lenient in their contractual requirements. Charlotte could continue attending college, stay at home. When she felt ready, she could join them in New York. Work for some company that needs digital drafters or product designers. Slowly progress their relationships until romance was a reasonable leap. It could all very well work out.

There is knocking at the door. Three spaced hits.

"Hello?" comes a voice, which sounds like the Capta—err, Steve Rogers.

Charlotte doesn't remember much of last night following the stress-crying, but she does indistinctly remember too-cool fingers tracing the untidy cursive on the inside of her arm and another big hand stroking her head. Hopefully she wasn't too much of a mess, because it seems like the universe is trying to broadcast just how much of one she really is.

"Uh, yes?"

"Oh, good! You're awake," he says through the door, his tone of voice conveying his pleasant surprise. It also sounds a little halted, like he's not sure if he's saying the right thing. She feels much the same. "I just finished fixing up breakfast. Uh, care to join us?"

The _us_ suggests Charlotte's other soulmate is out there beyond the door too, that they'll be sitting at a table as a family. Or maybe to talk. Either possibility leaves her feeling nervous and interested. _A horrible combination for me._

"Err, sure thing. Hold on a—"

She crashes to the floor, the covers dragged along for the ride. Her bad foot has clearly decided to launch a full-scale boycott, and the rest of her body throbs grievously as a reminder of her sorry state. A sharp groan might have slipped out of her mouth, or a garbled curse in Spanish. The bedroom door flies open in seconds, and there stands her blonde-haired soulmate.

"Are you alright?" he just about exclaims, crouching down to Charlotte's side. Rogers' voice is overfull with worry.

The young woman can't help but study him while he wraps his thick arms under her legs and the small of her back. He's got the looks of what any hot-blooded, All-American woman would want in a man. Blonde hair that is somewhere between burnished gold and too-light brown, but apparently he's outside enough for it to naturally bleach a more true gold color on the surface and stay darker at the roots. His eyes are blue, a soft blue. Charlotte'd say baby blue, but labeling them that would probably emasculate him or something. The man has muscles for _years_ , but they don't visually look like someone could pop them with a well-placed thumbtack. His jawline could cut solid marble, and so could his cheekbones. Yet, there are features he carries that somebody wanting a man's man wouldn't want to see. There's a smattering of beauty marks that vaguely start on his right cheek and trail down his neck inconsistently. Unless someone caught him up close or took a photo of him minus the paparazzi makeup, no one would see them. He's got lashes that would shame Maybelline mascara models out of a job. He has a faint crease between his brows and above them, a sign that he either worries too much or greatly expresses himself with them. If someone was extremely picky with his facial features, they'd say his nose was a little big for an Irish-American and that his eyebrows were a little too faint at the ends. His teeth are shockingly straight for someone who grew up in a time period with shitty dental care. All that Charlotte can manage to think upon finishing her observations is _this white boy is not allowed to be this hot_.

"Uh," she starts intelligently, "I think my right foot has decided to take a week's vacation."

Against what should be possible, Steve's face fills with more concern. "Does it hurt? You were wobbly on it yesterday. Has it gotten worse? I should have listened to Buck when he said we should have let Bruce check you out—"

"Hey, no. Dude, it's fine," Charlotte tries to soothe, grabbing a shoulder in what she hopes is reassurance. It's ridiculously solid with muscle, and the young woman feels like low-key swooning. She may be painfully uncertain and overwhelmed by the entire soulmate situation, but she's still going to try and be nice. And not ogle.

"It's not fine if—" he tries to say.

" _Hey_ ," she says sharply, over his unfinished thought. "My foot isn't going to be bearing my full weight anytime soon because it's an old injury. I broke my fifth metatarsal in high school jamming my foot accidentally in a pothole. It didn't heal right, and it aches like a bitch if I stand or put a lot of strain on it. If you can't remember, I was running around shooting aliens yesterday. It's fine."

It appears he understands, but ultimately doesn't look convinced. He carries her bridal-style through a hallway covered in framed photos into another room. She catches snatches of faces, sweet domestic shots of the Avengers. There's one of Tony Stark that actually looks very lovely, despite the fact he's coated in motor oil and a pair of cracked safety goggles are perched on his crown.

The man carrying her, either way, is definitely a worrywart. Just like her Words suggested, in fact. Charlotte tries a different tactic to calm him when she finally manages to pull her gaze away from the photos passing them by. "But I'll admit, my back hurts like hell. It's an oversized bruise. I kinda' hit the road pretty hard at one point while trying to not get eviscerated by an alien as big as an elephant. You got any Motrin?"

"We'll have to fetch you some," a voice speaks up, "Drugs don't do much for us."

Charlotte turns away from Rogers' mildly crinkled face, only to meet the gunmetal gaze of her second soulmate.

James Buchanan Barnes contrasts Steve Rogers in more than a handful of ways. His hair is a deep brunette that brushes the tops of his shoulders, with a less severe jawline and a soft cleft chin. There's well-groomed stubble instead of a clean-shaven face like Rogers, and different eyes. They're gunmetal, a grey with the faintest hint of blue. A more romantic person would call them gentle river eyes, if they read too many dime novels. He's got lips meant for serious kissing, strong eyebrows. While the blonde super soldier is built tall with a slim waist—looking like a Cool Ranch Dorito on legs—the brunette is made sturdy everywhere. Bigger chest, solid thighs, a heavy right arm. The boy's _thicc_. His left is iconic in its own twisted fashion, with the little red star and interconnecting plates. The prosthetic, up close, is entrancing to look that. With the late morning light coming in through the windows, even more so. His face, though as youthful as the blonde's, appears somehow weathered despite no obvious lines. The man carries a heavier, darker title than his friend, and Charlotte thinks it shows. He's the kind of fellow her mother would expect her to marry when she's thirty-seven, dark-haired and with enough potential that their kids would be equally as dark-haired and full of potential. Just... minus the metal arm, the horrifying past, his title, and the fact he probably assassinated John F. Kennedy. Her mother loved Kennedy, and remembers watching his televised speeches when she was eleven. All Charlotte can think is  _If he runs his metal hand through his hair, does he ever get said hair stuck in between the plates?_ and  _yet another too-attractive white boy._

"That'd be great," she manages to spit out as Rogers deposits her in a seat at their round dining table. "Thanks."

Steve takes initiative, disappearing through a door that looks as though it's the exit to the living space. Barnes gets up and piles bacon, scrambled eggs, hash browns, and a pancake on a plate for her, and stacks his plate sky-high with double the food. _Superhuman appetites_. He's very polite about it, going as far as to fetch and arrange the silverware and napkins properly before sitting back down. Charlotte distantly feels a little embarrassed that she's watching him throughout the whole routine, but the brunette moves silently.

Legitimately. Charlotte's young with young ears that can hear a penny hit concrete a good distance away. James Barnes makes _no noise_.

"How do you do that?" she blurts.

He's got his fork in his mouth when she says it, and he looks up at her from his overflowing dish. The knowing in his gunmetal eyes proves to Charlotte that he was very much aware of the fact she had been staring at him. And, it looks a little silly. A murderous chipmunk. He chews, resting his mismatched wrists on the edge of the table at either side of his plate.

"What?"

"How are you dead silent on your feet?"

"After all I've been through, doll," he says, not really smiling but also not frowning, "Ya' pick up a few things."

Charlotte considers him for a moment longer, his gaze not wavering from hers, before looking way to take a bite of pancake. _It has to be a Winter Soldier thing_. The food's delicious, anyway. When she's down to one last bite of the said bread product and about to move onto the eggs, which are equally delicious, Barnes finishes his fifth one and speaks.

"What's your name?"

She looks up, and he's staring at her with that same not-happy, not-unhappy expression. There's an intensity to it that hints at his keen interest to know more about his second soulmate. He just can't quite make the necessary social steps to let the learning process occur normally. Part of her wonders if he's interacted with anyone around her age in last year or so beyond just saving their life from eminent peril. His way of speaking is stilted, though he does an admirable job of not making it obvious. That, and his shiny arm is constantly whirring. Charlotte thinks that's an indicator of just how anxious he is, similar to an overworked computer. And her? She's just passively nervous because she's having breakfast with a complete stranger fated to be her lover until the end of time. Her back aches horribly, and so does her foot. _Where's the Captain with the damn Motrin?_

"Uh, Charlotte. Charlotte Gutierrez. Most people call me Charlie." She has no idea if she should offer her hand or not, but she does it anyway.

James looks at it with a hushed uncertainty. The air thickens from how much he tenses up. Charlotte immediately feels like an asshole when she realizes what was wrong. She had reached out with her right, and that would mean he'd have to shake her hand with his left. But before the young woman can switch hands and make the situation worse, a large metal hand encloses her smaller flesh hand. She blinks in surprise. It feels too-cool to be human, but texture of the polished metal and the thin slots between plates is fascinating. The design engineer in her is dying to analyze it for the bizarre work of art it is, but she's a reasonable person with a wealth of restraint.

"Well then, k—doll," he says, correcting himself from saying something else besides _doll_ , "The name's Barnes. James Buchanan Barnes. People who know me call me Bucky."

The sudden outpour of charm turns her cheeks a little pink. Yep, her Words fit him perfectly. After the quick handshake, she makes sure to stuff an egg in her mouth before she says something stupid.

"Now, where ya' from? Last night you were babblin' bout how we're from the east coast, and I kinda' wonder where ya' from ta' be a little upset over it."

He's leaning back in his chair as he speaks, idly stabbing a clump of scrambled egg and eating it. Gone was the abrupt tenseness in his bones. It's unnerving how quickly he can just shut all those unhelpful emotions down, like flipping a switch.

 _Oh yeah._ She did have a bit of a breakdown, didn't she?

She chuckles nervously. "Yeeeaah, sorry about that. Yesterday was a long day, you know, and finding out my soulmates live in Avengers Tower was a little too much at once. I'm from northern California. I'm literally from the other side of United States."

He hummed, chomping through his mountain of food. "Got any sisters? Brothers?"

"Err, a sister. She's soulbound and teaching film theory classes in Chicago as a tenured professor. Her husband's in the history department at the same college, they're ridiculously cute together." She eats another bite of breakfast. "You?"

He blinks. "Me?"

"Yeah," she says, unsure if she accidentally crossed into territory she shouldn't by being polite. "Did you have any siblings once?"

His lips purse, but not for long. He considers her expression, face blank, and must find some kind of assurance in it to answer. "Three sisters. I was constantly surrounded by women."

Charlotte can't help but crack a smile at that little factoid. "You sound like my dad. He's the only boy in his family, with two sisters. Then he married my mom, and then he had two daughters. He almost cried when my sister married; he was so happy he had a son-in-law."

A chuckle escapes the brunette super soldier, and he looks a little shocked at himself. His shoulders are much more relaxed than they previously were. His behavior is more mercurial than a deranged alley cat in a mood.

"So is this your first time in New York?"

"Yeah, uh. I wanted a vacation from college, and my bud Niko didn't have anything better to do with himself. So we were sightseeing and like, you know. We'd, ah, just finished touring the MOMA and went to eat at a family-owned restaurant when the invasion happened."

Barnes' face returns to somber. They sit there for a while, awkwardly. Maybe not for him, but it definitely is for her. He looks unsure on how he wants to broach the subject of the alien invasion, and Charlotte isn't sure if she should bring up her concerns about soulmate negotiations now or later. The unpredictable quality of his responses is intimidating in a certain fashion. She doesn't even dare to recall the events of yesterday; if she does, she'd probably have a panic attack. But as her mind lingers on the alien invasion, her eyes widen.

"Hey, do you know how Niko's doing? Did his leg make it? Can he have visitors?"

The super soldier appears grateful that she managed to find something to say. He clearly doesn't know how to talk to people younger than him. Or, he's not the best at filling up the silence with chatter since 1945.

"Stark says he's good. The doctors pulled off the impossible and saved his leg, but it was touch n' go. He's allowed visitors later today, but I'd wait till' later, doll."

Charlotte blinks. "Why?"

He shrugs, graceless. The man looks so painfully awkward. And stiltedly emotive. Had Steve looked this awkward when he picked her off the floor? She couldn't remember, but probably.

"Remember how Stevie an' I called ya' two heroes? Well, let's jus' say the media thinks so too."

 _Oh, I don't like the sound of that._ "...What?"

"A Youtube person," he states, like the old man he actually is, "Was live-streaming in that restaurant you were in. The first two minutes was just her ramblin' about food. I think she's a local restaurant reviewer. But then at about 3:05 in the video stream, well... she was recording you two the whole time. The lady even climbed up that windowsill and braced against the car like your friend did, holding her cellphone up to the gap to film it all. You're all over the news stations, the papers. Pepper's been fielding calls about getting an interview with either of ya' since eight o'clock last night."

Charlotte looks rightfully shellshocked. She'd nearly forgotten seeing that streamer before she left the restaurant to free the guns and ammo. "Fuck. My mother probably got to watch me shoot an AR-15 on MSNBC, I bet you money. Fuck, I'm never gonna' live this down. Ever."

"You were going to die, Charlotte," the brunette says. He's matter-of-fact in the way veterans are, like he knows instinctually what the odds of the fight were. It's both comforting and nerve-wracking. "If you and Niko hadn't stolen those AR-15's and the ammo box, none of you would have survived. I was armed with a sniper's equivalent to a cannon, some of those aliens were that big. You personally killed two of them."

"You're talking about those elephant-sized beasts," she says, somewhere between a statement and a question. Charlotte thinks back, almost flinching at the memory.

"Yeah, those aliens. You were lucky that you had enough ammo left to unload almost an entire clip and the aim to shoot at their eyes successfully. Again, if you didn't do what you had, I—" he cuts off.

He abruptly looks upset, ready to punch in an entire wall or cry his body weight in tears. A sudden crack in his bizarre emotional armor. Charlotte panics, because how does she comfort him? She can't puzzle her brunette soulmate out. Does he need a hug? What is she supposed to do?! She's already struggling to stand up and moving around the table to his side, and her arms are braced heavily on the dining furniture. She can't exactly walk with her shit foot, but she stumbles. Just as she moves close, he snaps out and pulls her into his chest with dissimilar arms. Charlotte may or may not have emitted a squeak of surprise. His brunette head tucks into the space between her neck and shoulder, hot breath by her ear.

"I... I wouldn't have been able to finally meet you," he finally gets out, barely a whisper. Strangely raw. "We were waitin' for you..."

And then Charlotte understands. It wasn't rare for soulmates to never meet because one or more of them died. Fate helped guide people together with soulmarks, but the Will of Man was oftentimes strong enough to destroy the path. War brought imbalance, murdered indiscriminately. Both Rogers and Barnes had lived through one of the worst wars in history. They probably saw their fair share of dead bodies being mourned over by their unbound match. The invasion she just survived with Niko was a disturbingly good parallel. That... and Barnes had been brainwashed and used like a wind-up tin soldier by Hydra for nearly seven decades. The chances of him ever meeting her had been slim.

But Fate found a way, it seemed.

"Hey, hey! It's fine. I'm here all in one piece. Bruised and bandaged, but here." Tentatively, she reaches up to pat his head. Admittedly, she has to stretch her arm at a weird angle to even get that far, and it's only the very tips of her fingers that manage to complete the action. It appears to help, with the way the super soldier's shoulders ease minutely. Charlotte also thinks that the brunette undeniably suffers from all too much trauma, because erratic emotional outpours like this and stilted behaviors were key signs of said trauma.

"I'd always thought we'd find ya' on tha' front someplace," he murmurs, halting. "Why else would you go on 'bout swords an' guns?"

Charlotte didn't have an answer for him. She keeps patting the top of his head with the tips of her fingers, but really, she is starting to feel uncomfortable. The position she is in hurting her back, and as much as the man needs comfort, she doesn't know him. She's being hugged by a famous stranger-turning-acquaintance who desperately waited for her for apparently an entire century. _This is plain surreal._

Eventually, it seems to dawn on Barnes that the hug is straining her bruised back, and abruptly lets go. She nearly hits the floor, because her right foot still won't support her. He quickly scoops her up before she ends up with a concussion, cradling her close, walking five steps and placing her back at the table in front of her remaining breakfast. They both go back to consuming mass quantities of breakfast foods, and Charlotte doesn't attempt to try for more conversation. Barnes appears deeply introspective anyway, eyes staring at some middle-ground between the curving edge of his plate and the dining table's polished wood surface.

And, of course, Steve chooses that moment to return to the apartment with a large bottle of Ibuprofen. The man must be able to sense the moodiness emanating off his best friend like a NORAD radar, because his quietly happy expression evaporates into concern.

"You here with me, Buck?" he says.

The man's voice startles Barnes out of his distant thoughts, and suddenly there's a more genuine expression of happiness on his face. Charlotte feels misplaced despite the fact she's sitting at the table in the middle of the scene. She's no fool, and she can tell from the way their eyes connect that her earlier question has an answer. _These two are each other's soulmates; I'm not the connector between them_.

"M'fine, Stevie. Just thinkin' is all. You find the Motrin for our girl?"

The phrase _our girl_ hits Charlotte like a speeding steam train, and she swears it's going to take about a five months and three different soulmate negotiation meetings before it won't shock her. Steve nods at the brunette, before turning to her. He easily opens the child-cafe cap before speaking.

"One or two?"

"I definitely do not weigh enough to earn a second pill," she says, her hand held out. Steve shakes the container, and one lands in her palm. A bite of eggs and a quick swallow later, it's gone.

"The team wants to meet you," Steve comments, still standing near. Charlotte has to crane her neck a little to look up at him, and all she really manages to do is stare at his pecs. There is an unspoken, entrancing quality to the way the Super Soldier Serum made Rogers' body so strong. It reminds her of Michelangelo's many male statues, all of them modeled after stone workers who had been tightly wrapped in muscle from laborious work. That, and she's apprehensive about leaving her soulmates'... apartment? Living space? They haven't even begun to discuss their whole soulmate situation. Just breakfast.

"Oh?" she says, short and dumb.

"Yeah. Barton wants to meet one of the heroes of West 44th Street, and so does everyone else. Beyond us and Tony, no one else was aware of what you did yesterday. They were busy clearing out the aliens from three different boroughs and part of Central Park."

Steve's friendly blue gaze looks at her expectantly, and Barnes'— _Bucky's,_ she needs to get used to saying his preferred name if this whole soulmate mess is going to work _—_ stare is all too knowing but simultaneously worried. He's no fool, and he must be aware how wrong-footed she feels. Literally and figuratively; she can't exactly walk around with her bad foot. And that their weird conversation hadn't helped matters. 

But then Charlotte remembers that promise Niko extracted from her in the heat of the alien invasion. And her own personal promises. And all their shared irrational anger, because _what kind of superhero doesn't react to gun-toting civilians during an invasion?_

"Let's go."

* * *

The Avengers Tower is a maze, and the only reassurance Charlotte will find her way back to the bed she woke up in is the fact someone painted a tastefully rendered red-white star on the front door of her soulmates' apartment. Clearly it had been an issue for one of her soulmates at some point, and their solution involved decorative decals. There's a forearm crutch rigged to her arm so she can stand on her bad right foot, and Charlotte wonders who was nice enough to provide it. It works fine, though her maneuvering isn't a vision of elegance by any means. Steve and Bucky lead her through more twists and turns than her dyslexic brain can comprehend, until their small group encounters an elevator. 

"Penthouse, Jarvis," Steve says to the air as the trio enters the transport. Charlotte raises a confused brow. Before she can ask him if he's going senile despite his good looks, someone responds.

" _As you wish, Captain_ ," a British voice responds out of nowhere. It's very digital.

"What the fuck?" falls out of her mouth for perhaps the fifth time in her soulmates' presence. "Who's that?"

"That's Jarvis, Tony's AI. He apparently—"

"Holy shit, really? A bonafide artificial intelligence?"

Steve's face is a little amused at her interjecting words, and the nerdy-fascinated look that's probably facing her features. Bucky has his eyebrows raised, but not for long.

" _I am indeed bonafide, Ms. Gutierrez_ ," speaks Jarvis, " _I am not, however, at all similar to the fictional artificial intelligence from the Terminator films called Skynet_."

Charlotte does not have a response for that. Nope.

"Anything else you're gonna' spring on me, you two?" she questions with something of a tone, turning to them in the confined space. The two super soldiers are very bulky. "Because between the invasion, matching soulmarks, and real-deal AI systems, I don't think I have much left in me before I ejecutar fuera de la reserva."

"Before you what?"

"Run off the reservation, go off my handle, whatever. Answer the question." It sounds like a command, and she hopes it does to them too.

Bucky leans over, the tips of his hair brushing her shoulder. "Todos los que viven aquí están locos _._ "

His Spanish is ridiculously good, with barely a hint of a Brooklyn accent. If she's suddenly very interested in what he has to say, it's because he sounds like something straight out of a porno.

"Incluyendo a los dos?" she asks right back.

"No, we're perfectly normal," the brunette responds flippantly.

Charlotte feels like he's lying to her. They'd both survived fighting Hydra in World War II, for Christ's sake. Normal is not in their dictionary.

"I'm beginning to feel left out here," Steve butts in. It startles her into awareness. The young woman makes a mental note to teach the blonde Spanish if they're going to be soulbound for the rest of eternity.

"He says that everyone here is crazy. I asked if that included you two," she translates.

The man simply shrugs, not mulling over the words for more than two seconds. "He's not wrong."

It is in that moment, with Charlotte keen to question the Captain further, that the elevator doors click open. The quiet ring of a bell announces their presence to the occupants of the room ahead. Steve exits first, while Bucky hovers near her as she ambles her way out of the elevator. When the young woman bothers to look up, not at where she's moving her crutch, she finds that she's back in the room she'd discovered the truth about her soulmates. The couch that Charlotte had dirtied looks to be still quite dirty, but the stains look smudged in some places. Apparently someone with little experience in cleaning upholstered furniture tried and failed. It's still a living space that has too much glass included in its design, and the electric blue trim is a lot more tacky in daylight. The view of the city hasn't lost its beauty, but Charlotte can't completely see it with people standing in the way of it.

Four Avengers are standing, and the rest are sitting among the comfy white seats circling the sleek coffee table. Black Widow sits alone in a love seat, nursing a mug of something while an AR-15 leans against one of her crossed legs. Charlotte knows it's her gun, because the scratch marks along the the body of the weapon came from her wild frenzy to kill the monsters that nearly took Niko's leg and ate her whole. Hawkeye is perched on the arm of Widow's seat, arms crossed. He's staring straight at the young woman without blinking, and she won't deny that it is a little too unnerving. Bruce Banner, Scarlet Witch, and Vision take up the non-dirty couch. Thor stands off to the side, posture loose and curious at her arrival. Falcon sits in a love seat and doesn't seem to be as intensely fascinated by her as everyone else. He's friendly, and quietly watching. He smiles at Steve briefly. War Machine, or the man that uses the armor, sits in a love seat as well. Tony Stark simply stands in the middle of the gathering, mouth opening and gearing up to speak.

Almost on instinct—but more likely abrupt, consuming anger—Charlotte shoves her crutch at Bucky and throws herself forward with a vengeance. Her hand balls up, aligns with Stark's stupid face mid-swing, and crunches the man's nose with a not-so-savory sound. The Avengers are all standing by that point in varying states of shock.

"Wha' tha' fu'k?!" Stark yells, his words coming out muffled from his very broken and bloody nose.

" _Eso es para volar dos veces y no ayudar, maldito hijo de puta!"_ she spits at him, stumbling back and nearly falling. Steve catches her upper arm before that happens. "You're lucky I don't punch as hard as Niko!"

"Holy shit," Hawkeye slips out.

Charlotte knows she should be regretful that she punched one of the richest men on Earth, but she really doesn't feel it. Her and Niko and all those people they'd saved nearly died. If either Californian died, so would have all those people. Over a hundred persons dead. All because one rich fucker didn't bother to stop a moment to help. Charlotte feels quite justified. A few members of the Avengers apparently feel the same.

"He should have seen that coming, if her friend's response to meeting him was anything to go by," Widow remarks, fingering the AR-15.

"She's definitely Steve and Bucky's soulmate," speaks Falcon, eyes a little wide.

War Machine, Vision, and Bruce Banner pull the billionaire to the dirty couch, the latter of them already going about checking out the damage. Wanda Maximoff doesn't say anything, but she is smirking.

"You are quite the little warrior!" Thor says to her jovially. He's bigger than Charlotte expected, and louder. The Asgardian towers over six feet, and he's built like a brick shit house. His smile is nice.

"Thanks, I think," she says, trying not to look at the Captain. He's currently holding her upright with one of his strong arms. Charlotte can feel his gaze exuding ridiculous amounts of disappointment and exasperation. Bucky chokes out a short but loud guffaw, because he may seem emotionally broken but he does have a sense of humor. It cheers her on a little.

"Thor, this is Charlotte," Steve says curtly. _Lord, he sounds as exasperated as his eyes feel._

"A pleasure to meet you, little warrior! You and your friend fought well during the invasion."

"I... I guess? Yesterday was the first time I ever shot an AR-15," Charlotte responds awkwardly.

"You made some pretty damn clean shots for somebody that just picked up a semi-automatic." Hawkeye abruptly appears within her field of vision, eyebrows raised and his expression impressed.

"The recoil's not as bad as our buddy Colby's shitty-ass shotguns. They're older than these two," she says, pointing at the super soldiers on either side of her, "And heavy as shit."

"Hunting then? Where?"

"California. 'Was born and raised there. I'm only here with Niko because I wanted some vacation time." She isn't about to add that Niko is a huge fan of the Avengers.

"Jesus. Talk about bad timing," Clint comments with sympathy. "Your buddy's pretty cool. Gave him my autograph in the hospital."

 _Oh no, he must have been dying from glee,_ Charlotte thinks.

"Did he start rambling in Spanish and thanking God while clutching at his shirt?"

"Yeah."

_Called it._

"I assume you punched Stark because of something he did during the invasion?" Widow interrupts. She's extremely beautiful up close, but also exceedingly intimidating. Her eyes are razor-sharp and needle-piercing. Charlotte's gun is held loosely in the beautiful woman's right hand, like it is nothing but a cheerleader's baton.

"He flew by twice while we were nearly overrun by those aliens. Niko swore that he'd shoot him out of the sky if he passed by a third time. I told him I'd happily inflict the harm myself. Seeing as I do not have a gun and I'm not keen to spend time in prison for manslaughter, punching his face is the next best alternative."

The Widow nods, easily accepting Charlotte's reasoning. No argument, no skepticism. "Good work with your tactics, using the alien corpses as cover. You'd make a good sniper."

_What?_

"Que?" she spits out on reflex.

The redhead simply smiles, sashaying off toward the dirty couch where Stark is complaining loudly at War Machine. Still carrying the gun. The young woman blinks dumbly.

"Does that always happen?"

"More than you'd ever want to know," confirms Hawkeye. He offers his hand. "Clint Barton. Nice to meet the other hero of West 44th Street."

"Charlotte Gutierrez," she manages, feeling exceedingly strange. Meeting the Avengers one by one is like an out-of-body experience, and all the initial aggression left her body completely upon punching the billionaire. The young woman is just a ball of anxiety now. Plain and simple.

"What's up with the crutch? Did you break something?"

"Uh, no. It's an old break, it aches," she says. "I honestly tumbled out of bed, I couldn't put any weight on it."

"Metatarsals?"

If her face isn't incredulous, she's eating the baggy shirt hanging off her body. "How'd you know?"

"I've had my fair share of bad falls. Breaking bones in your feet is a bitch."

She lets out a short laugh. "HA! Agreed. You do stretches?"

Barton chuckles amiably, "Everyday. Can't have my feet giving out on me during a mission."

Charlotte is sold on becoming a Hawkeye fan. Niko doesn't have to try and convince her any longer. The man's a bro. 

In the corner of her eye, Bucky leans toward Steve. " _There's two of them, Steve_ ," he whispers, though not low enough that Charlotte can't hear him. " _What're we gonna' do with two of them?_ "

" _Pray that the first one doesn't try to teach the second one how to properly shoot_ ," the blonde whispers back.

She looks over at them, zeroing in on Bucky.

"Come una verga," Charlotte says sharply.

Clint whistles. Barnes stares, mildly surprised. Steve looks confused, and a little agitated at not being able to understand her. The young woman thinks she's justified in saying it. Hell, she feels justified in a lot of her actions, as of late.  
  
"Did she jus' tell Terminator ta' eat a dick?"

Everyone glances toward the couch, where Stark sits with two fingers pinching the bridge of his bleeding nose. He sounds a little nasal. Bruce Banner looks strangely amused.

"She totally did," Barton affirms. Steve continues to look puzzled, but also absently amused. Bucky rolls his eyes.

"Well, if I ignore the fact you jus' punched me, it's nice to meet tha' other crazy kid that held West 44th Street," the billionaire declares. "Tony Stark. Genius, billionaire, soulbound, philanthropist." His hand, stained red, is offered for Charlotte to shake. The team watches the occurrence keenly.

She grabs it with a strong grip, because a little bit of blood is nothing after having to save her best friend's chewed leg. "Charlotte Gutierrez. Next time you see a pair of college kids running around shooting AR-15's, please don't ignore them."

"Between tha' bruised ribs an' tha' broken nose? Message received."

Charlotte raises a brow. "Bruised ribs?"

"Your buddy Niko, even if he's downa' leg, kicks like a champ."

The young woman can't help but laugh. "That's Niko for ya."

Tony nods, scraping up a grimace of a smile that is genuine in a very bizarre way. Maybe it looks that way because there's dried blood on his face and caked onto his facial hair. People always look a little more real when they're visibly imperfect.

"So, you're the geriatric twins' soulmate?"

At last, the conversation Charlotte had been waiting for comes around. The wild mix of dread, anxiety, and ever-present disbelief settles in her stomach like a rock. She tries to straighten her back, taking her crutch from Bucky to stand by herself without Steve's support.

"Yes," she says.

The room suddenly seems to fill with a thin layer of tension, and Stark's countenance hardens with seriousness. Clearly everyone in the room knows that negotiations were going to have to take place, or at very least, that some of their team would be consumed with it in the coming months. They all understand the weight of importance involved. Except Thor, who looks ever more curious. Clearly nobody explained human soulmate customs.

"Who are your representatives?" asks Stark, straight to the point.

"My parents. They're in Sacramento, California, probably upset beyond words. From what Barnes and Rogers were telling me, I'm a news sensation. My mom most likely saw me nearly die and kill monsters with a semi-automatic. She might bring the rest of the family with her."

"Have you contacted them yet in any way?"

Charlotte makes a face. "My phone broke during the invasion. It's currently a paperweight."

"Right," the billionaire quips, rubbing at his nose. He sounds a lot better. "I'll hook you up. No problem. We'll need to figure out when the first meeting is going to be, blah. Pepper can help with that, she's good with that sort of thing. Your parents can stay here at the Tower during the whole back and forth process; we'll even pay for the plane tickets. You're welcome. But the _real_ question is," he spins to look at her soulmates, just about pointing at them, "Who's going to represent you two?"

The young woman watches the two super soldiers share more than a few looks, and she has to admit she's curious what they'll choose to do. Seeing as their families are long since deceased and so are most of their old war buddies, it leaves them with a very short list of would-be representatives. Which, realistically, is the Avengers team or any specialized negotiation lawyers Tony Stark could manage to scrounge up for them. Really, Charlotte wishes she had the chance to talk to her soulmates alone with a clear head before they started deliberating over the logistics of the negotiations with the rest of the inhabitants. Talk about each other a little bit, talk about the invasion a little more, establish prior expectations so that none of them are shocked by any demands made during the negotiations.

But apparently Tony Stark doesn't allow anyone to do anything the normal way.

"I can do it," Sam Wilson offers almost immediately. Charlotte's not exactly surprised. The Falcon was a VA worker, if she remembered the gossipy internet articles correctly, and probably trained to handle being a stand-in for any veteran that needs a representative during negotiations. People like Wilson were unsung heroes, in her opinion. That, and the man's clearly good friends with Rogers.

"I would be honored to represent James and Steven, if they so wished," Thor booms. Even if he doesn't exactly know what's going on, the Asgardian clearly has their backs.

"I think all of us would volunteer if they asked us, Thor," Natasha comments, eyes trained on the pair, "But do they want that?"

Bucky and Steve don't say anything, though the blonde appears especially touched that his team would represent the both of them in a heartbeat if he wanted them. The nods and noises of agreement from the rest of the team only makes it more obvious.

"Well, I for one think that we all should do it. And Pepper, because Stark's honestly useless when it comes to soulmates," Clint proposes, a wry expression on his face.

"Hey!" the billionaire squawks, "What's with throwing me under the bus!? I can be a representative."

"My negotiation meetings when I met my soulmate say otherwise," Rhodes grouses.

"Honey bear..."

"You were negotiating for orgies, Tones! _Orgies_."

"I was a little drunk at the time."

"You're lucky Debra thought you were being funny and didn't demand a 'no contact with Tony Stark' stipulation in the negotiation..."

"Podrías pensar que eran almas gemelas con la forma en que actúan," Charlotte mutters. The Avengers, when assembled together in a room, didn't seem to be able to stay on topic. _I_ _t's a miracle these people manage to save the world all the time._

"Lo revisamos. Están platónicamente casados," Clint speaks, startling the young woman. Behind her, Bucky raises a quiet brow at the interaction.

"You speak Spanish?" she questions.

"Comes with the territory," the archer supplies with a shrug. She thought otherwise.

"Where the fuck did you get that accent from?"

"Argentina...?"

Charlotte gives him an affronted look. "If you ever go to Mexico with that accent, you're gonna' insult people. No _sha_ 's, no _ja_ 's."

"There's nothing wrong with my accent!"

"Oh, really? Where are you from?"

"Iowa."

"Bitch, you should know proper Spanish! Junta tu mierda." Bucky chokes on a cough, barely hiding his amusement.

"Oh yeah? Well... uh, vales verga?" Barton tries.

It was her turn to choke down out a laugh. "Te cress muy muy, Barton?" she said teasingly, "Come mierda y muere!"

"Rude!" he cries. Then one of his teammates say his name, and he's quickly lost to the jabbering menagerie of supers that have grouped to one side of the room. Steve stands in the near-center, the eye of the storm. Charlotte is awkwardly alone.

"Ya' havin' fun, doll?" the brunette super soldier prods, coming to stand close her left side. His question is subtly sarcastic, and not posed with much emotion. She’s beginning to understand that she shouldn’t expect normal emotive behaviors from him immediately. He needs to get comfortable, Charlotte can only assume. But she is starting to appreciate what little she's deciphering, either way. His flat delivery makes the sarcasm all the more funny.

Charlotte gives her dark-haired soulmate a pointed look. "Can you blame me? It seems like the peanut gallery can't figure out what to do for your side of our first negotiation meeting. I'd been poking fun at an Avenger's Spanish accent a few seconds ago. My life is a surrealist experience."

A strange kind of smirk, frail around the edges but honest, pulls at his lips. "Welcome to the madhouse."

The young woman huffs a breath—an aborted guffaw of back-handed amusement, if someone wanted a full explanation—as her eyes track the progress of the Avengers' debate. Bucky seems content to do much the same, his right arm nearly touching hers but paused a polite distance away. Stark seems adamant that Steve allow them all to participate, while Wanda and Bruce feel that hiring an experienced lawyer is more sensible and proper. Steve is hemming and hawing, not yet making his decision until he listens to all his friends' opinions. Charlotte thinks she's getting a preview of what kind of fellow Captain America is when the world doesn't demand a fantastical leader to save them. He's very shy and sweet, in a more normal setting. It doesn't juxtapose well with his bulky body, and she finds herself a little endeared.

"You know..."

Bucky blinks, tilting his head slightly so his gunmetal gaze can meet her darker one.

"I think my mother is gonna' eat Steve for breakfast if he acts like this at the negotiation meeting. Between the age gap and the fact he's _very_ white, he won't stand much of a chance. My father's a sweetheart, my sister's stubborn, and her husband is bookish; but my mother? Maria Gutierrez was born to destroy men."

"Steve'll be fine," the man states. Simple, short.

"Really?" Charlotte doesn't quite believe him. Then again, she doesn't really know the blonde man yet. He could be able to take her mother's all-encompassing aggression with flying colors for all she knows.

"We grew up in a time when two men couldn't be each other's soulmates. And yet Steve didn't give a shit about being arrested for sodomy, or what people said about him. He declared himself my soulmate as loud as he could, at any chance he got. It's a wonder he hadn't died from being beaten to death before Erskine enlisted him. I think he'll be able to stand up against your Ma, doll."

Charlotte glances away, staring at her pale-haired soulmate. She watches as he smiles sheepishly at someone's off-hand comment. The faintest of blushes lightly dust his pale cheeks, but the coloring looks almost too bright with his Irish-American complexion. It is too sugar sweet for words. Her heart shouldn't already be turning to sludge after barely a few hours of conscious exposure to the man, but it is. A patented 1940's magazine smile. One that is not even _aimed her way_ , and it's slowly winning her over. And the realization of what all that meant was a sucker punch to the stomach. _Dios mío, that hunk over there is mine. The brunette standing next to me is mine. Dios mío!_   All her "look-but-don't-touch" years in middle school, high school, and college are over. Charlotte had been saving herself for her soulmates because she was raised by a traditional parent, but now she has them. They were within reach! _This dawning moment is the be-all, end-all of sexual awakenings!_

That damn smile on Roger's face is the kind of shit people think of when they think of stereotypical World War II heart throbs. Hell, the man probably _invented_ the stereotype for the World War II heart throb just by existing. And glancing at Bucky? Who stares at Rogers with a soft expression full of fondness and affection? With those looks of his, tempered by stubble and tired lines beneath his eyes? The man is the _synonym_ to Steve's _root word_. 

Charlotte is so screwed. Muy jodido. Unequivocally fucked. And all she can think about at the moment?

How the hell she's going to convince her mother not to doom her to a future where she's a sexually frustrated forty year-old virgin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: It's like an inside joke amongst Mexicans what accent is the true accent/the better accent. It happens all the time with my friends. They all hate the lispy Mexico City accent or the ja's of the Argentinian accent.
> 
> #### Spanish translations:
> 
> Todos los que viven aquí están locos - Everyone who lives here is crazy.
> 
> Incluyendo a los dos? - Generally "Including you both?"
> 
> Ejecutar fuera de la reserva - run off the reservation. Another way of saying "going rogue."
> 
> Eso es para volar dos veces y no ayudar, maldito hijo de puta! - Generally "That's for flying by twice and not helping, you fucking son of a bitch!"
> 
> Que? - What?
> 
> Come una verga - Eat a cock/Eat a dick.
> 
> Podrías pensar que eran almas gemelas con la forma en que actúan... - "You would think that they were soulmates with the way they act..."
> 
> Lo revisamos. Están platónicamente casados. - Essentially "We checked. They're just platonically married."
> 
> Junta tu mierda. - Essentially "Get your shit together."
> 
> Vales verga - A slang term that means "You're useless." Literal translation is "You're worth dick."
> 
> Te crees muy muy - A slang term that generally means "You think you're a badass?" Literal translation is "You think you're very very?"
> 
> Come mierda ya muere! - Eat shit and die!
> 
> Dios mío! - Oh my god!
> 
> Muy jodido - So fucked.


	3. Phone Calls from Hell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She calls her mother. She calls her sister. There's yelling, crying, and small-scale family drama over the phone. People say Steve Rogers can't talk to women, but Charlotte's worse at being a properly sociable human being. Bucky understands.

Many hours later, when a hazy sunset hangs low on the jagged horizon of the New York cityscape outside the Tower’s grand view window, Charlotte calls her mother.

Tony Stark keeps his promise, appearing out of nowhere with a very fancy StarkPhone like a hyperactive weasel on Speed. With some degree of politeness, he asks for her broken paperweight, citing that he could recover all her data and restore it on the brand new phone in his hand in less than a minute. The young woman doesn’t hesitate to hand it over, because there was no way she was turning down a chance at owning one of the coolest smartphones on the market. Two terabytes for hard drive storage, free Stark Industries-provided cloud space, high resolution camera. Who wouldn't want that? It takes exactly twenty-five seconds for the data to be salvaged, and even less time for Tony to set up its fingerprint security feature. Charlotte loves it the moment it's in her hand, except—

"Did you make a custom body for this phone just so you could make a bad joke?"

Tony grins, as big as his ego is large, completely unrepentant. "What do you think?"

Staring down at the StarkPhone, the young woman thinks the answer is in the realm of _yes_. Because, instead of the standard sleek metallic grey body, the smartphone has a borderline kitschy design printed onto its casing that somehow manages to combine the American Flag and the Winter Soldier's signature colors. A large black square, rows of little crimson stars floating in black, then stripes that alternate between cheery tones of red, white, and blue. The new American Flag is garishly stupid. Charlotte wants to hate it, but she also wants to show it off to Niko when she's finally allowed to see him. _You see this? This is the ultimate Avenger kitsch joke. Hell, the ultimate design joke! Why aren't you laughing, you asshole? It's fuckin' funny!_

The young woman lightly punches Stark in the shoulder, either way. The billionaire chuckles before she can second-guess herself about joke-punching a guy who could sue her into the next century, and shoos her off. Charlotte hobbles into the elevator, stumbles through the maze of corridors, and reaches the star-decorated door with Jarvis' help. She remembers Steve telling Bucky he'd be on their floor if he needed him, and Bucky saying something about stretching his legs. All she got was _the door's open for you when you want to come back_. An acceptance, but not exactly an eagerness. She wasn't sure what to take away from it. Clint had kept her from leaving immediately and testing the open-door theory, annoyingly enough, by asking the young woman random questions and babbling about other topics of idle conversation. Do his teammates not like chatting? Then again, the man was an ex-SHIELD agent. All those dumped files on the internet said so. She really likes the guy, either way. A total bro.

Charlotte knocks on the star-spangled door. She waits barely a minute before it swings open to reveal Steve, all blonde and welcoming. He takes up the whole doorway, and he's dressed very casually.

"Good to see you're back," he says, "I was starting to wonder when Clint would let you go."

"Does he do that to everyone, or just new people?" she has to ask, hobbling into the apartment while the blonde closes the door.

"New people. He gauges everyone he meets with questions that don't really make any sense. You just have to let it happen."

Her smile is sardonic. "Figures."

Charlotte takes a moment to pause, realizing she hasn't gotten much of a chance to look around at the apartment. It's very quaint, if not charmingly old-fashioned. That is, some of the furniture and decor is outdated. A horrid [couch](https://www.pinterest.com/pin/218354281918120911/) from the eighties, knit throw blankets that appear handmade, a sixties [stuffed chair](https://www.pinterest.com/pin/279504720605962858/) with low armrests, an old oak coffee table, two [carpets](https://www.pinterest.com/pin/518054763359758578/) that look like something bought off a street market, dark wooden bookshelves. The walls weren't the bland sandy taupe color that her bedroom is, but a warmer color with a reddish-brown accenting trim. Art and photographs hang anywhere that space is available, and the bookshelves are overloaded with reading material of all kinds. Charlotte would almost say that the super soldiers went for something of a new-age vintage bohemian look, but really, it seems like the sort of setup anybody their age would do. _Have fun with the lack of unity, enjoy the colors, make a few bad jokes, save money, live thrift!_   And hadn't her soulmates lived through the Depression? Talk about living on nothing when one needed everything. She likes it a lot.

"I think I'm in love with your couch," the young woman decides to say. She doesn't want to appear too stupid around her soulmate, standing dumbly in the middle of the room.

"What, that ugly thing?" Steve queries, amusement in his voice, gesturing to the gaudy furniture. "Damn thing smelled like shitty cigarettes for three weeks before it finally aired out."

"So? That's some quality flower upholstery. You know how hard you have to try in order to find something that tacky? Fuckin' determination."

Steve chuckled, baby-blue eyes alight with silly, relaxed glee. "Stark would argue I have too much of it."

"Steve, buddy, you don't know the meaning of stubborn until you've met my mother. One time, when I was ten, she waited three hours until some asshole at the DMV actually did their job. A weaker man would have just walked out and tried another day."

"Bucky would probably argue otherwise. He won't let go of the fact I insisted we ride the Cyclone at Coney Island back in '39."

"Coney Island?"

The big blonde blinks. "You don't know what Coney Island is?"

"Uh, I'm Californian?" she awkwardly poses, reminding him.

His response is a lovely blush and a sheepish smile. "Right. It's an amusement park. Used to be a riot when I was younger. Buck'd take girls there for dates, drag me along for ride too. I always looked like a chintzy idiot next to him, some bag a' bones with shit lungs and flat feet."

 _Chintzy?_ The man is ridiculous.

"If it's still around and the negotiations go well, you and Bucky should take me sometime. Right now I need to go call my parental unit and sit through what's surely going to be the biggest screamfest of my entire life." She walked towards the hallway lined with hanging photographs, aiming for her bedroom. "If I'm not back in an hour, light the beacons and save me."

Steve's eyes narrow, like he was trying to remember something. "Lord of the Rings?"

"Tolkien is true top tier fantasy, and I've read all the books ten times. Adios."

Charlotte leaves her blonde soulmate in the living room of the apartment, opening the door to her allotted space and slipping inside. She makes sure to close it behind her, figuring that the super soldier doesn't need to super-overhear her try to console her mother. _God, this better not take longer than an hour. Please!_ Numbers are dialed. The kitschy phone is cradled close to her left ear. She listens to the ringing trill of a connecting call, waiting for her mother to pick up the hardwired house phone. There is rarely ever a time the elderly woman can't answer. If she doesn't, Charlotte knows she's fucked. No answer meant her family is already on their way. _Pick up, pick up_.

Then the ringing stops and the young woman can hear breathing. " **Hello?** "

She takes a single, fortifying breath before the inevitable dive. "Hola, Madre."

" **CARLOTA HELENA MARIA HEINRICK ESPERANZA GUTIERREZ** ," her mother bellows on the other end of the line, " **WHAT IN THE NAME OF GOD POSSESSED YOU TO PICK UP A GUN?!** "

_Here we go._

The thing is about Charlotte's maternal figure? Unlike most reasonable mothers, consoling her mother didn't mean comforting a sobbing woman in the grips of prolonged hysteria. Consoling her mother, in simple terms, meant withstanding a very intense screamfest fueled by all the emotions driving said mother insane. Because her mother? The sobbing hysteria only lasts maybe five minutes before she's filled with righteous motherly fury and ready to tear anyone she can manage to get her arthritic hands on to bite-sized shreds. Someone once commented that such behavior was very typical for a Mexican mom. Charlotte doesn't deny it. This situation was not any different, except the source of her emotional turmoil was within reasonable screaming range via phone call.

" **I DID NOT CARRY YOU FOR NINE MONTHS AND GO THROUGH TWENTY-TWO HOURS OF LABOR JUST SO YOU CAN WASTE YOUR FUCKING LIFE RUNNING AROUND WITH THAT DUMBFUCK LUSH THAT SMOKES MARIJUANA, TOTING GUNS AND DIE! YOUR SISTER WAS HYSTERICAL, YOUR FATHER WAS BESIDE HIMSELF! DANIEL CALLED FIVE DIFFERENT COLLEAGUES UNTIL HE MANAGED TO GET A HOLD OF DR. BANNER AND ASK AFTER YOU—** "

"Ma—"

" **DON'T YOU FUCKING DARE INTERRUPT ME, CARLOTA! I'M SPEAKING! YOU LISTEN TO ME! YOU'RE NEVER GOING ON VACATIONS ALONE AGAIN—** "

"Madre—"

" **—AND YOU'LL STAY HOME UNTIL THIS WHOLE INVASION HERO FIASCO IS DONE AND OVER WITH—** "

"Madre, please—"

" **—AND NIKO IS NEVER TO BE SPOKEN TO, SEEN, OR HEARD FROM FOR AS LONG AS I GODDAMN LIVE, THAT STUPID BORRACHO—** "

"MADRE, CALLATE! I'm fine, okay? I'm fine! Still mentally reeling and feelin' like shit, but I'm perfectly fine," She offers, before retorting, "And you will not tell me who I can and can't hang out with, Madre! I'm a goddamn adult!"

" **Barely!** " she barks back. " **And you're fine?! I saw you limping on television like a lame horse! Your bad foot was acting up! Did you break it again, Estúpido!?** **What even possessed you to do that, running around with a gun?** "

"What, did you want me to die in that invasion, Madre? Is that it? Grandpa wouldn't have sat inside a restaurant waiting for death!" The young woman threw in the mention of her grandfather, who's mere mention usually threw her mother off. Unfortunately, not this time.

" **My father wasn't a dumbass! You, however, seem to want me in an early grave! I just about had a heart attack, seeing you on the news!** "

"You weren't there, Mom! Okay? You. Weren't. There. You got to watch it all on screen like some kind of motherfuckin' action film. Those fucking aliens were eating people! They were gonna' devour every person they could find on the streets, and then they were gonna' start breaking into buildings. I was watching pedestrains  _get torn apart,_ Mom! Niko and I were stuck in a restaurant with thirty or so other people. I wasn't going to wait for a horrible, violent death like a coward with a bunch of hysterical New Yorkers. I had a chance to live, and I took it with Niko following right behind me!"

" **Don't yell at me that way! I have a right to be upset! I saw the numbers! Over two hundred people died in the invasion, hundreds more injured! YOU COULD HAVE BEEN ONE OF THEM!** "

"But I wasn't, so you need to calm down!"

Charlotte's mother ignores her, but lowers her voice. " **Where are you? Where are you staying in New York?** "

"I'm at the Avengers Tower, staying with... You guessed it! The Avengers."

" **Don't be smart with me. Where are you staying?** "

Sometimes the young woman really hates how her mother doesn't believe anything she says. "I just told you, Avengers Tower. Haven't they been talking about me on the news?"

" **I turned off that useless chatter hours ago.** "

"Well you should have kept listening to it, because the reporters probably have been yammering on about Niko and I."

**"Fine then. Why are you staying at the Avengers Tower?"**

Charlotte feels her stomach flip and churn nervously. She is silent on her side of the phone a little too long. " **Well? Speak up!"**

"I found my soulmates," she says, the words rushing from her mouth.

Because her mother is her mother, smarter than the smartest of bears, it only takes her three seconds to connect the mental dots.

**"You have to be _kidding_ me, Carlota!"**

"Seriously?" Charlotte shot back, "I fucking tell you I found my soulmates, and you answer with that? Que chingado, Madre?!"

**"Don't yell at me! Which ones, then? I know you have two soulmarks. Are they both superheroes?"**

Charlotte doesn't beat around the bush. "Captain America and the Winter Soldier."

 **"Ugh, the gringos,"** her mother grouses. **"Of course my daughter ends up with white men, of course! Old ones, too! GEORGE!"**

Charlotte can't help but heave a very tired sigh, falling back onto the bed with the phone by her ear. The crutch clatters to the ground, and she honestly feels like punching something. Her mother, bless her, is one of the most difficult of women on the planet. And now she was dragging her father into the conversation.

**"George! Your youngest is matched with super soldiers! I can't take this kind of ridiculousness! Take the phone, I have arrangements to make!"**

"Wait, Madre—"

But the phone was handed to her father. Too late. **"Hello, my littlest."**

"Hi Dad," she said, her expression tired but fond. He was always more calm and composed than her mother. The man had honestly popped out of the womb a gentleman, or so her grandmother said.

**"How are you? When I saw the news, I've never been more terrified in my life."**

"I'm okay, Dad. Got my knees all bloody and bruises galore, but I'm not badly injured. Niko's leg is lucky to have been saved, he's the one in a tight spot."

**"I'm sure he'll be fine, Charlotte. He's a determined kid. Good guy too."**

"Yeah. Do you know how sis is doing? Or Daniel?"

**"They're upset, but fine. She's actually very proud of you."**

"Who? Sis?"

**"Your mother."**

Charlotte made a face. "I know, but it'd be nice if she'd stop yelling at me. I've had a tiring two days."

**"Get some rest, my littlest one. Especially that foot, I know how much trouble it gives you. Also, say hello to Captain America for me; I was a big fan of his comics when I was your age."**

She couldn't help but break out into a smile at her father's roundabout way of accepting her soulmate news. "I will, Dad. Oh! And when Mom said arrangements, did she mean flight arrangements?"

**"Probably. You know how this soulmate business works. The family's your representatives."**

"Tell her to stop, or leave it to sis. Tony Stark's gonna pay for the airfare and everything else. It really surprised me."

**"Ha! I'd say! How about that, getting taken care of by Iron Man! I'll talk to your mother. Call your sister, and have her set it all up with Stark. Your mother has the hardest time with airplane ticket sites."**

"Alright then. Love you, Padre."

**"Love you too, Charlotte. Get some rest."**

"Will do! Bye."

**"Bye."**

The connection ended, and Charlotte wants to melt into the bed beneath her. Instead she sighs again, takes a few breaths, and dials her sister's number. It's harder, dialing her sibling's number. Betty, or Elizabeth if one wants to say her entire name, was the very emotional one of the family. There were more childhood stories of Charlotte's sister crying for whatever reason than there were stories of Charlotte walking into doorways. Which, when she was younger, happened a great deal. So the young woman waits. The ringing echoes in her ears as she lays across her bed, motionless.

Then there is breathing on the other side. **"H-Hello, is that you, sis?"**

"Hola, Hermana," Charlotte says carefully, "Cómo estás?"

**"Oh my god, Charlie! Dios mío!Thank God, y-you're okay!"**

"Like a bunch of aliens were gonna' stop me, sis."

 **"Not funny!"** her elder sister gasps out with a disapproving tone, clearly working up the energy to cry.

"Hey, no. Betty, don't cry! Please! I'm really fine, beyond a very sore foot, scraped up knees, and a bruise the size of Texas on my back. Seriously, it's nothing."

 **"Tell that to me when I'm not panicking,"** Elizabeth bitterly retorts.

"Too late," Charlotte quips weakly.

There's a soft sob, and then heavy breaths. **"God, I'm just happy to hear your voice, sis."**

"It's good to hear you too," she says, and she means every word. "How's Daniel?"

**"Fine, though he went crazy calling every tenured science professor he knew in a desperate hope to talk to Bruce Banner. He managed, you know. The man said you were fine too."**

Charlotte can't remember ever meeting him before the gathering in the Avengers' living room floor, and even then they hadn't talked. She wonders if he'd seen her when her soulmates brought her to the Tower.

"Yeah. We briefly met."

 **"Are you doing okay over there, in Avengers Tower? It seems so mind-boggling, you know? People like us don't get to just go there and chat with superheroes."** The young woman can hear the natural-born concern of an elder sister seeping into her voice amidst the tears, but it's light and not pointed.

Charlotte just brushes it off. "Heh, well, I'm an exception to the rule."

 **"You always have been, in your weird way. Loco as hell, too,"** the last sentence is said fondly, hiccuping, and Charlotte can't help but smile at her sister's words.

"Our whole family's loco, Betty. I just got off callin' Mom, and she's in rare form. Dad's serene as ever, and he asked that I call you. Not that I wasn't going to anyway, but you know Dad."

**"Yep. Never not a gentleman. But seriously, Charlie, what are you doing in that Tower? I mean, yeah, you're now a news sensation along with your friend Niko, but I don't think you're hiring material for their team."**

"Yeaaaah. Um, well... You see, sis...." she stumbled to say, _Um's_ and _Uh's_ dripping out of her lips like excess saliva for about a minute.

**"Charlotte, c'mon."**

Then it all just dumped out. "Ifoundmysoulmatesinthemiddleoftheinvasionandthey'reCaptainAmericaandtheWinterSoldierandHOLYSHITthey'retoohotwhiteboysthatliterallyaresupertallandshit--"

 **"Stop. I only heard Captain America and holy shit out of that entire word soup you just blurted out."** The tears are gone, and her sister is all too keen to hear new gossip.

The young woman took a fortifying breath. "I found my soulmates, and they're Captain America and the Winter Soldier."

**"...What?"**

"I know! I'm still in shock, and it's my life! Like, I was half-burnt and losing my shit over Niko's chewed-up leg, and then Bucky Barnes comes onto the scene in all black like he's fuckin' Beyonce about to slay it singing Formation at Half-Time. And, you know, whoopee-hurray, we're all saved! But then Captain America himself just appears outta' nowhere offering to carry Niko and I'm just dumbstruck and tired, and then there's aliens to shoot again. I fuckin' quote Sean Connery in the middle of a firefight, cuz' I'm a dumbass, and then I mouth off to Captain America, and then I'm fuckin' out. I wake up in the Tower, grimy as shit, and then those two just stride in and nearly strip down to show me two exceedingly embarrassing soulmarks that undeniably make me their soulmate," she took a breath, "I told Mom, and she just lost it. Dad's all for it, because of course. But Jesus, Betty, _I wanna' sleep for ten years!_ "

The silence on the line isn't interrupted by noise for three minutes. Charlotte is ready to jitter her way out of her skin when it is nearly four minutes, but her sister finally speaks again.

**"Not to sound cruel, but all I can manage to think is that it makes perfect sense that the only two people in the entire world who can be bound to you for eternity are a pair of super soldiers. For a tiny little pasty chicana kid, you're a ten-foot terror sometimes. It's perfect. They only ones able to handle that would have to be super."**

Charlotte wants to sink into her bed and never be seen again. _My sister is horrible and I am not that bad!_

"I am not terrifying!"

 **"Oh really?"** Betty said, not even holding back her judging tone, **"I distinctly remember fourth grade Charlie, stuck sitting in the principal's office under threat of expulsion because the biggest kid on the playground was harassing one of your friends. And, you decided the only way to resolve the issue was _to climb the kid like a tree and stab him in the back of the neck with a ball-point pen three times_."**

Clearly, her sister was never going to let her live that down like she'd hoped way back when. She attempted to think of a good comeback, but failed to do so.

"Fuck you."

**"No thanks. I'm happy to hear this, though. Really, sis. You found your soulmates! This is great news after the invasion. I assume Dan and I are going to be flying to New York for the negotiations? Did Mom talk to you about that?"**

"Not really, beyond the fact it's your job to book the soonest flight to New York for the 'rents and yourselves. And, I guess, anybody else that wants to be a part of my negotiations. Tony Stark's footing the bill."

**"Woah, what? Expense-paid flights? God, Charlie, why couldn't you have found your soulmates sooner? How do I contact him?"**

"...You know, I really don't know. Does Daniel still have Bruce's number? Just call him and ask for Tony, siting flight arrangements."

**"True. Maybe we'll get first class seats."**

"Knowing Stark for all of five minutes? I think so."

The chatter between them calms, Charlotte's sister much more chipper now that she knows her little sibling is alright and taken care of by her soulmates. They can't help but catch up with each other, discussing college from both ends of the spectrum and wondering how well the two super soldiers will take meeting their formidable mother. When a hush settles on the line, Betty tentatively asks if Charlotte's truly okay.

"I'm really, really fine, sis. It's... It's a lot to take in and process, both the soulmate thing and just-survived-an-alien-invasion thing. I'm still very jittery, and my anxiety is off-the-charts, but anybody who manages to get through a life-death situation probably feels that. I'll be back at it for classes when they roll around."

**"Charlie, it's okay to be something softer than a grizzly bear. Not everyone can be Mom twenty-four seven."**

The young woman wishes her sibling just left her alone when it came to her mental health. Ever since Betty realized she had depression, she was a helicopter that wouldn't stop circling. And her sister wasn't the person she'd want to share all her fears with, and never really was that person. The two of them were surprisingly close despite the age gap between them, but not close enough.

Charlotte didn't want to explain how the smell of human gore still seemed stuck in her nose, or that her mind was hard-put to forget what a man looked like when his entrails were poured out across the concrete and his arm ripped off like a turkey leg at Thanksgiving dinner.

"I'm fine, Betty. I need to go eat something, and see where Steve and Bucky drifted off to."

Her sister's smart enough to know when the conversation is over, and doesn't put up a fuss. **"Alright. I'll text you the flight info when I've got it."**

"Okay, bye."

**"Bye."**

If the young woman doesn't emerge from her designated room for another hour or so after hanging up, her soulmates have enough grace and kindness not to point it out.

* * *

It's close to nine o'clock at night when Charlotte finally exits her room, shuffling with her crutch under her arm and the new StarkPhone in the pocket of her borrowed sweats. She wonders if she missed dinner, or if her soulmates were nice enough to wait until she joined them to start making a meal. It turns out to be the latter.

"Hey there, doll," Bucky greets, looking up from a worn paperback. Though his mismatched hands partially hide the cover, Charlotte suspects it is one of those old Star Trek pocket novels from the seventies. She's read her fair share of them, and knows what most of the covers look like. He's laid out on the wild floral couch, a throw blanket tossed over his legs. The man appears very cozy.

"Hi," she says, perhaps a little stilted. "You and Steve have dinner yet?"

"Nah, we decided ta' wait for you. How'd the calls go?"

She made a face, and Bucky read it like the book in his grip.

"Not too good, then?" he hedged.

"I told Steve, but you usually expect a bit of a screamfest with my mother. So... yeah. Lots of upset screaming. My dad's interested in meeting Steve?" She's trying to sound a little less exhausted, but it's a hard thing to do. Bucky, either thanks to being the Winter Soldier or just simply being a very perceptive fellow, quickly loses his slight smile for a frown at her verbal garble.

"It doesn't sound like it went too well at all, doll." Without much inflection, the man manages to make the plain statement sound weighted.

"Madre's always been a very difficult person. Tough as nails, takes no shit, but very quick to anger when her family's in trouble. It's cool, Bucky."

The man relaxes, but only minutely. Feeling a little jittery under his intense focus, Charlotte glances around and doesn't spot her soulmate's blonde counterpart.

"Steve out?"

Bucky shakes his head, "Paintin' something."

"Ah."

She just stands there by the couch, and Bucky stares. Charlotte really does wish she was better at socializing, or simply interacting with people, but she's honestly a walking mess. The young woman is capable of being loud and outspoken, but half the time she loses the nerve. _Anxiety sucks_. The one comfort she does have is that Bucky's possibly as bad--if not worse--than her in the socialization department.

"Okay, I gotta' tell you something."

Bucky blinks, as if coming back from a momentary daydream. "Yeah?"

"I'm really bad at being a functional, social person. I basically failed my college Speech class, barely got a D before I gave up and got a W for withdrawing. So... yeah."

"Okay."

They stared at each other again, with Charlotte shifting about and Bucky sitting perfectly still. After a moment, he dog-eared a page and closed his book. The pair don't speak for five minutes.

"I don't talk sometimes," Bucky abruptly states. "I'll be chattin' up a storm, but then I just can't. When I was under Hydra's control, I wasn't allowed to. To talk. Only speak when addressed, hold still and stay silent otherwise."

She doesn't want to overstep by saying the wrong thing, but Charlotte feels as though they've suddenly come upon a verbal show-and-tell time. His gunmetal eyes are soft, but not. _Vulnerable_ is the best word for it. She decides not to waste the chance.

"I don't react to situations properly. Either I don't emote at all, or I emote too much. I've been told that it happens a lot with people who have anxiety or depression, and it makes reasonable sense I guess. I've got both."

"Hydra tortured emotion out of me. In a way, though Steve and Sam helped a lot. It was hard to let myself smile or get angry. I still have problems with it."

"When I get really depressed, I read the entire Lord of the Rings series. Hobbit, Fellowship of the Ring, Two Towers, Return of the King. Technically Hobbit is its own stand-alone story, but Bilbo's Ring is vital to the trilogy, so I see it as part of the series."

"You like fantasy?"

"I like reading just about anything. But I do really love fantasy, historical fiction, and science fiction. Not a big fan of most teen novels that were around when I was in grade school."

"Do you like Star Trek?"

"I grew up on the show," Charlotte says with a smile. "Ever see Stargate-SG1? It's super corny in some ways, but it's also the coolest military science fiction show ever."

"Do they have pocket novels like Star Trek?"

"Yeah! I own a few. Same for Star Trek."

"We should add it to Steve's list."

She blinks, her expression turning a little confused. "Steve's got a list?"

The brunette nods. "He's got a running list of things he has to catch up on since the forties. We've been going through it together. We'll put Stargate-SG1 on there, yeah?"

"And Andromeda. It was also a science fiction show written by Gene Roddenberry."

"Really?"

"Yep. He also just wrote books. Look it up sometime."

"What about Red Mars?"

"That was the wierdest space-trip I've experienced since fuckin' 2001: A Space Odyssey."

"I just finished the trilogy. It's real swell."

She giggled. Legitimately giggled. And somehow ended up sitting on the couch with Bucky's legs in her lap. _When did this happen?_

"Swell?"

He smirked. "Don't make fun of an old man, doll."

"Doll?"

He grinned. "You're walkin' a fine line."

Bucky's smile hits her like a knife to the heart. If she wasn't already very slowly falling for them, the charming looks were helping the process along. She smiled right back. "That's what they all say."

"I hope you aren't trying to charm her up, Buck, because we don't need her Ma coming after us with a bat."

Heads spin, and the young woman spots her other soulmate.

"Hey, Steve," Charlotte says, staring at the man leaning in a doorway. There's a small dot of blue paint on his chin, and his hands are stained as a patchy disorganized rainbow. She wonders if the room behind him is his studio space.

"I ain't pullin' any funny business, Stevie. Geez."

Steve chuckles at his best friend and lover. "No, but you two are real sweet when you get going over books."

Both dark-haired soulmates blush, because apparently a sappy Steve Rogers is a very dangerous man. The blonde laughs at their expressions.

"C'mon, I'll get a late dinner cooking. What's this about adding something to my list?"

And just like that, the three of them find themselves discussing books well into the late hours of the night. Charlotte is all the more enchanted by the pair, and comes to the conclusion that while Bucky is the science fiction nerd, Steve is the fantasy lover. The Left Hand of Darkness is brought up, and somehow they end up talking about gender politics in America. Brownie points are given to the two super soldiers, because she never would have thought two men from the forties would ever be interested in talking about such a subject. The young woman also learns that Steve is a magician when it comes to cooking, and he was also the one that cooked their breakfast that morning. _Spaghetti should not be this tasty_. Bucky needles at Steve now and again, light jokes that eventually break down into Yiddish insults. Schmuck is repeatedly said, along with bupkes. Steve comes back at him with equally as many profanities in the same language. Charlotte idly tosses in some Spanish, just to annoy Steve. Bucky catches on, and they scream at each other in Spanish over the angry yelling of their blonde soulmate. The two dark-haired idiots nearly laugh themselves to tears. For a while, Charlotte forgets about the horrors she saw during the invasion. She forgets her frustrations with phone calls from Hell. She has a great time just existing with two old-ass goofballs with muscles for days.

None of them go to sleep until four in the morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #Bless Jewish Bucky Barnes, and one Steve Rogers who totally picked up some Yiddish from him after being his friend/soulmate for so many years.
> 
> Schmuck - a bit of Jewish-American culture slang that means "stupid, foolish, or contemptible person." Technically a profane word in the Jewish community (cuz it also refers to penises), but at the same time, not really? Depends on how orthodox you are.
> 
> Bupkes - Impolite, pejorative word meaning “very little” or “next to nothing," used to indicate a very small, insulting amount. (Usually the word means goat or horse stool.)
> 
> #### Spanish Translations:
> 
> Adios - Bye
> 
> Madre - Mother/Mom
> 
> Carlota - Spanish way to spell "Charlotte" [CAR-LO-TA, and you roll the R on your tongue]
> 
> Borracho - Drunk/Lush
> 
> Loco - Crazy/Insane
> 
> Callate! - Shut up!
> 
> Estúpido - Stupid
> 
> Gringos - Slang term that generally means "White Men" or "Filthy English Speakers." Non-friendly term towards Caucasians.
> 
> Padre - Father/Dad
> 
> Dios mío - Oh my God!
> 
> Que chingado - What the fuck!?


End file.
